


Skimmons Drabbles & Ficlets Collection

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, bioquake, canon compatible, ratings may vary - see chaps, skimmons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaenous Skimmons-centric drabbles & ficlets, mostly from various Tumblr prompt challenges. Mood, setting & rating may vary, will be given at the beginning of each 'chapter.' (*some are brotp, some are otp, most ambig).</p><p>Most recent chapter: First Date - fluff/humour</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Canon Compat. Angst/Hurt/Comfort.

**Author's Note:**

> 2x06 insert. (No prompt.)  
> Canon compatible ish. Angst/hurt/comfort.  
> ft canon compat anti-Ward sentiment.

“If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

Jemma Simmons stares down her would-be protector. First, he looks surprised that the little bird he dropped from its nest is demanding his attention. Then a little proud. But his moment of softness - so familiar, so treacherous – does nothing to breach her steel eyes, and she savours the horror, fear, sorrow and regret that flash across his face as he bears witness to the avenging angel he has forged her into. He turns his head away, walking unerringly on, towards his death, and still she does not crack. Her fists are braced by her sides, her eyes trained like rifle sights between his shoulder blades, her steady breaths measuring the seconds that pass in a silence that is disturbed only by the footsteps of Ward and his guards as they escort him down the dimly lit hall and into darkness.

“Simmons,” Skye says quietly. “Take a breath.”

Mechanically, Simmons obeys, but her posture does not change. She is stone, she is steel, she has to be. Softness hurts too much. It feels like she is going to break. She can’t bear it any more. She can’t.

Then Skye puts a hand on her shoulder.

Steel, rapidly and drastically cooled, is brittle, and it shatters at Skye’s touch. Simmons’ knees drop out from under her, and she turns and grabs at Skye before she can fall. She wraps her arms tightly around Skye’s shoulders and claws desperately at the material of her shirt. It’s delicate, she’s probably tearing it, but Skye’s only response is to hug back as best she can with her upper arms pinned to her sides, and to press her cheek to Simmons’ hair as Simmons buries her face.

“I’ll kill him,” Simmons vows. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.” 

Her breaths begin to hitch and choke and the words become meaningless as hot tears burn away the ice she’s been holding onto and then set fire to it. Everything is wrong. She shouldn’t be angry, she shouldn’t be crying, but she is and it’s Ward’s fault and it’s her fault for leaving and thinking that would work and Fitz is hurt and his friends are mad and they have every right to be and she is alone, _alone,_ for the first time ever and she can’t stand it.

Skye’s jaw hangs a fraction open at first. The breath’s been knocked out of her by Simmons’ desperation, and her tongue struggles for words. She can’t very well tell her not to do it. Neither of them are prepared for that discussion and she’s willing to admit she’s got more biases than should rule a decision over life and death, but above everything, her worldly cognition is still struggling with the fact that Jemma Simmons of all people just did that. Just said that. Just meant it – and still means it, judging by the vicious runs that are going to scar this shirt for all time. The tight ball of rage that now lives below Skye's heart expands slightly for what has been done to Jemma Simmons, and Skye’s fingers curl enough to create runs of their own.


	2. Future Fic. Angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt.  
> Futurefic (or AU). (written from the past hence 'Skye')  
> Angst, dark ish. Brainwash mention. ft. Hydra.

- 

They are in the last of a row of cells. It’s temporary holding - 3x3m, and with no facilities other than a bench running along each of the walls. The door facing the corridor is made of bars; the rest, even the benches, of smooth concrete. There are no windows in sight, only a light – and not a very good one - hanging in the middle of the corridor. There are no guards here, and despite Skye’s long and rowdy protests, nobody has shown them any attention since locking the door and walking out. Now, exhausted, she collapses on the bench adjacent to Simmons. They sit in silence for a long while, slouching against the wall, hugging their knees, shifting as the unforgiving concrete bruises every surface it touches. They look at each other, and then they look away. They wait, and try not to think about what they are waiting for.

Then Skye notices that Simmons has been staring at one of the cameras in the roof of their cell for an unusually long amount of time. There’s a strange look in her eyes, as if the camera is a window, out into the night that must be settling over them by now. Skye shivers, imaging the cold night air and wishing she was out in it even as she pulls her sleeves down over her hands, and puffs warm air onto them.

“You’d think a top secret agency that can afford half a million cameras could at least splash out for some internal heating. Not gonna be any use if we’re popsicles, eh?”

She cracks a smile, but Simmons continues to stare wistfully up at the mysterious dome, lost in thought - or perhaps, memory.

“You know,” Simmons murmurs, “in the eighteenth century, a man named Jeremy Bentham came up with the idea of guardless prisons. You build around a central tower –“ she starts to demonstrate lazily with her hands, still apparently entranced by the camera “- and you put each person in an individual cell, and shine a light behind them, so that their silhouette can be seen from the central tower. You tell the prisoners that they’re being watched. That there are snipers mounted on top of the tower or whatever punishment you want to offer, and anyone who does not obey will be punished. You don’t need to actually put anyone in the tower at all. If they believe they’ll be punished, they won’t disobey.”

“Creepy,” Skye mutters.

“Effective, though,” Simmons responds. Her eyes flash to Skye’s face, still half-buried behind her gloves, and she shakes her head.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m being morbid. It’s how I cope. Fitz usually doesn’t notice. Or at least, he hasn’t said anything. It does come off a little creepy, doesn’t it?”

“Cope away. You can’t creep me out any more than the rest of this does.”

“I guess not.”

Simmons looks down. She picks at the side of her shoe with a finger, and notices with an idle sense of irony that they are the same ones she was wearing when she got called into Mr Bakshi’s office. _You’ve been lying to us, Miss Simmons._ A shudder runs through her and she bites back the sudden fear.

“What?” Skye asks. For a long moment, Simmons doesn’t reply. She lets her finger slowly drop from her shoe, and then she shuffles so that her feet hang over the bench, to the floor, like they’re supposed to. She leans over her own lap, hair obscuring her face like a curtain, and Skye can see she’s fiddling with something in her hands. Still she has not replied, and Skye is about to switch benches to coerce an answer out of her friend when Simmons begins to speak again.

“You know, Fitz and I, we never even passed our field assessments.”

“May picked you. She must have trusted you guys.”

“No, she must have trusted herself to save our miserable behinds long enough to keep Coulson alive. I don’t mean to be cold towards her, but that was her primary aim in offering us the field positions.”

“Why did you take her up?”

“I thought it would be fun.” Simmons snorts. It comes out a sob. Suddenly, her face is burning and wet. Her eyes sting. A hand flies up to cover her mouth and catches the tears before she can taste them. Skye jumps up from her bench, and sits beside Simmons instead, and locks her arms around the scientist like a harness. Simmons inhales and waits for a long moment, for the air to compress the sobs. She continues speaking, because otherwise she’ll be lost to hopeless bawling and that will be bad for the both of them, but every word carries the threat of tears.

“As you might expect, we were pretty evenly matched in most of the categories. Weapons training, obviously. The obstacle course. But interrogation? I don’t think the difference between our scores has ever been higher. I was really, really impressed. And I told him so. I kissed him on the cheek and I asked him to come with me and he said yes, right then and there. I wonder sometimes if he wasn’t just being a flustered, flattered, heroic idiot.”

“Course he was.”

“Course he was.” She shakes with laughter, despite her tears. She shakes her head and sighs. “I’m glad you’re here, Skye.”

“Come on, if I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. I know what you meant. That was me avoiding what I know you meant. It’s how I cope. “

“That’s not coping, Skye, that’s just denial.“

“It’s not denial. We are not going to die. May and Tripp and Bobbi and Coulson are coming for us and we are going home and I’m going to force you to watch all the B-Grade science fiction films I can get my hands on. We are not having this conversation. We are not. Going to die.”

“ _You_ aren’t going to die. Your father’s here, he’ll protect you, and they probably won’t do anything to you at the very least until they’ve figured out your secret, which is apparently a pretty dangerous one, so you can probably take them down with it if push comes to shove. Me? Aside from all things they might just plain enjoy about torturing me, they have good reason to want me hurt. I lied to them. I tricked them. I stole from them. I humiliated them. And I escaped them. Do you honestly think they’re going to let me have a second go at it? The only way I’m getting out of here is on a stretcher, or with a smile on my face.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever.” Skye squeezes tighter, and presses her forehead against the side of Simmons’ face. Simmons brings up one hand and knits it through Skye’s hair with a sigh.

“They only need my brain, Skye,” she explains softly. “And maybe my hands. Not my thoughts, not my feelings, not my morals. But if it makes you feel any better, they probably won’t have to torture me. Logical people are easy to brainwash. It’ll be like going to sleep.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Me neither.” Simmons brings up her other hand, and wraps her arms around Skye’s shoulders in an approximation of Skye’s own hug. She has something in one of her hands. She clenches it in a fist against Skye’s back. Footsteps can at last be heard in the distance. A heavy door opens, and groans closed, and the footsteps get closer. The girls’ hearts accelerate and they both pretend not to notice.

“Fitz was in interrogation for hours.” Simmons’ voice is a whisper now. “I was starting to get really worried. None of the stuff they do is physically real, but the simulations can be very authentic, apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“You know I said our scores were different? Fitz got almost full marks. I washed out. First time I’ve ever failed an assessment. That’s the disadvantage of excelling at preparation. You spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about what’s going to happen to you.“ She laughs quietly. "I was so nervous, I threw up.“

Another door opens. Judging by the change of light, and the proximity of the footsteps, their visitor has reached their cell block. Simmons’ hands shake as she pushes Skye away and stands up.

“Promise me you won’t let me hurt any of you,” Simmons begs.

“Simmons-“

“Swear to me.”

Bakshi arrives at their cell door, accompanied by two armed, Kevlar-sporting guards. His hands are folded neatly behind his back. He catches Simmons’ eye, and raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“I – I promise,” Skye says. Simmons nods her thanks and farewell, and steps up to the cell door, drawing fire into her lungs as the bars slide out of the way.

“Mr Bakshi,” she says, looking him straight in the eye as she offers her hand to be shaken. “Jemma Simmons, Agent of SHIELD.”


	3. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Shut up, I am a delight!"  
> Fluff. Romantic. G rated. Happy Mardi Gras!

 

“So we’re doing this.”

“Yep.”

“We’re really doing this.”

“Yep.”

“They’re going to laugh.”

“Probably. But only because they’ve never seen you in a leotard before and the only other option would be to just drop dead on the spot.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Simmons glared at Daisy. Daisy grinned back.

“See, I’ve been paying attention,” she pointed out. Simmons continued to glare, until the reflection of her belt in the mirror – asymmetrical – bothered her enough to be a distraction.

“You ready?” Daisy asked. Tugging her belt into place and checking her hair, Simmons nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve just got to do my makeup.”

“Makeup? Or ZINC UP?”

Daisy revealed two large handfuls of what appeared to be clear lipstick tubes, with a horrendous array of brightly coloured lipsticks inside. Simmons jumped back, scrambling onto the bed to get as far away as possible from the impending attack.

“What the hell is that?!” she demanded.

“Zinc!” Daisy declared. “Wasn’t easy to track down either. But I thought you’d appreciate it. Now we can be rainbow AND sun safe!”

As Daisy let the zinc tubes rain down onto the end of the bed, Simmons smiled at the bright colours, and at the sweetness of Daisy’s consideration (and at the evidence that Daisy actually did pay attention and care about her babbling-slash-nagging). Of course, Daisy immediately stepped on her own moment with the flawlessly throwaway addition of:

“You’re going to need it with your pasty ass in this weather.”

“Excuse you!” Simmons retorted immediately. “I am not _pasty!”_

(“- any more,” Daisy muttered.)

 _“- And!_ I’ll have you know, people of east-Asian descent are actually _more likely_ to develop melanomas and other skin cancers in the United States than Caucasians are. You should be thanking my ass for inspiring you.”

“I’m sure your ass inspires a lot of people.” Daisy smiled, and looked upward as if reminiscing. Simmons threw one of the zinc tubes at her.

“Shut up. You’re a disaster.”

“You shut up!” Daisy returned. “I am a delight!”

She popped open the tube Simmons had thrown at her – apricot orange - and dove onto the bed. Simmons shrieked with laughter as tiny multicoloured tubes bounced and flew and fell on the floor all around them. She scrambled for a nearby lime green, and wielded it in defence.

By the time Bobbi came to collect them for the parade, they and the bedsheets and the carpet were all feeling the spirit of the evening.


	4. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Stay there, I'm coming to get you."  
> Non graphic injury, blood mention. Fluffy.

Daisy raised the gauntlet, throwing three of the guards back as she flipped a fourth over her shoulder and kicked him down.

“Simmons, where are you?”

The other three were recovering. One by one she picked them up, twisted, kicked them, rolled and struggled until she was charging forward again, punching the door open with another burst of energy. Flowing through the halls like water, on the balls of her feet, she called for Simmons’ answer again.

_“Kitchen…south-west corridor…argh! Please hurry.”_

“Stay there, I’m coming to get you.” Back against the wall – three, two, and they’re down and she’s moving. “What the sitch?”

_“I’ve got the thumb drive and I’ve locked myself in – in the kitchen – barricaded the door with a chair…and a freezer.”_

“Damn.” Glance back over her shoulder. Clear. Move along.

 _“Adrenaline.”_ There’s weak laughter on the other end of the line.

“You sound out of breath, you okay?”

 _“Yeah.”_ More weak laughter. _“I’m – I’m hit, they hit me, I’m – losing a fair bit of blood so if you could just –“_

This time, it wasn’t laughter that cut Simmons off, but a heavy, pained groan. A flutter of fear and hurt at the sound of it distracted Daisy long enough that a squadron of guards – clearly tipped off at last – had assembled around the corner. They let her take the first of them by surprise, but she flipped and pinned him before she realised there was a rifle as long as her arm trained on her. Before she looked up, she heard the crack of gunfire. She pushed out, felt the bullet whizzing toward her, and stopped it.

Well, blew it into a cloud of metal dust and gunpowder, but so sue her.

Suppressing a smile at the satisfactory increase in the temperature of the room, she held up her hands in surrender, and slowly stood and turned toward the bewildered guards.

“Look, guys,” she started, in the overdrawn casual tones of self-aware banter. “I know we both said some things, did some things. People got hurt. Certain other people nearly got shot in the face. These things happen. They’re easily explainable. We’re all doing our jobs here. Other things, not so explainable, so I’d start working on something to tell your bosses because I really don’t have time to give you options.”

“What-?”

One of them stepped forward, and she parted her hands, throwing them either side, into the walls. Some were probably knocked out, most of them probably just disoriented, but she and Simmons had an extraction plan elsewhere. No sense in causing any more damage than she had to. She’d probably already got a few of them fired, if not doubting their mental states. No more time to think on that for now, though. She had a doctor's appointment.

“Damn,” she whispered as she finally located the door to the kitchen. “I always think of the one-liners when no-one’s around.”

Daisy raised an arm and blasted through the door and Simmons' barricades, following the shockwave with what she hoped was an epic slow-motion action expression, but which probably closer resembled walking through a swarm of flies.

Simmons was waiting for her, leaning on the bench with a large red patch covering almost the entire left side of her torso, one hand inches from a large knife, and the other clinging desperately to a tall bottle of whiskey.

“Oh, good,” Simmons breathed. “I thought I might have to lock myself in the deep freeze. Made a bit of a mess with the stitching, it’s not as bad as it looks. Also, I may be a little tipsy.”

“You stitched yourself up? That’s totally badass.”

Daisy couldn’t help but be impressed as the rather goofily-grinning Simmons staggered into her arms. Wrapping her protectively under one arm, Daisy led her over slowly toward the window.

“I did,” Simmons babbled. “I _am_ badass. Also quite tired?”

Daisy almost laughed.

“No worries, hero. Extraction’s on its way.”


	5. Canon Compat. Angst/Hurt/Comfort.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (sorry not sorry for the brief update spam. the Femslash Force has been disturbed and i'm doing what I can to rectify it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You're important too."  
> Canon compat, set early S3. On the angst side but hurt/comfort focus.

Much to Simmons’ satisfaction, her sensitivity is wearing off quite effectively. But this morning, it’s too early, and she’s too full of feelings and bad dreams to stop herself flinching at the sharp, angry movements Daisy makes around the kitchen. She tries focusing on the whistle of the kettle – it’s sharp, but at least it’s a continued, familiar, predictable sound once it gets started.

Daisy slams the jar of coffee on the bench by Simmons’ shoulder, and this time, catches the tiny little jump. She groans.

_“Sorry.”_

Simmons waves her off, so Daisy pinches her own nose briefly in frustration and pours a spoonful of coffee into her cup.

“Stupid coffee machine,” she mutters, mostly to herself, as Simmons begins assembling tea for herself. “Stupid Hunter for blowing up the stupid coffee machine. Stuck me with stupid _instant_. Did _not_ need this today.”

When the lid to the coffee refuses to screw back on, the cutlery drying by the sink begins to clink together. Simmons takes the coffee jar and lid from Daisy’s hands. Daisy takes a deep breath, massaging her hands together, until the quaking stops.

“Am I right to assume it’s not just the coffee that’s bothering you?” Simmons inquires, screwing the lid on and moving Daisy’s mug so that it’s clear she’s taken over making both their drinks. Daisy sighs, grateful and exasperated.

“Slept like crap,” she explains. “Again. Can’t focus on anything - feels like I can’t even read my computer screen these days. Running around after the Inhumans has been driving me into the ground and with Lash and everything now I just feel like I’m just slamming my head against a brick wall. Repeatedly. I’m exhausted and everything sucks.”

“I know the pain.” Simmons nods. She picks up the mugs and leads Daisy to the dining room table.

“Yeah, sorry,” Daisy apologises again, trailing Simmons and then taking a seat. “Guess I should stop complaining, huh? At least I get night. And a bed. And, well, coffee.”

“I had a bed.”

Daisy bites her lip. She wants to ask about Will, but she doesn’t. Before she can think of something else to say, though, Simmons speaks again.

“Lash and everything – even the Inhumans – that’s not on you. Not just on you, anyway. You should take a day. Get some sleep. Have a bath or something. Play some games. I know you want to protect your people, but you can’t let it work you into the dust. If nothing else, you’re useless to them exhausted.”

Daisy shakes her head.

“I can’t do that. I can’t let Lash-“

“Wait until after Lash, then. But do it. You want to right wrongs, I get it, but you’re not just the defender of the Inhumans, and you’re not just a weapon Coulson gets to deploy. You’re not just an agent. You’re important too. In and of yourself. You’ve got to look out for yourself and the people you love on your own terms.”

Daisy peers at Simmons, who takes a sip of tea without ever taking her eyes off Daisy.

“That was very profound and emotive of you,” Daisy notes, a little put off. “I think you’ve been hanging out with Andrew for too long.”

Simmons shrugs.

“I didn’t learn it from him. I learnt it from you.”

Daisy scoffs, and looks down into her coffee. “Not sure you wanna be doing that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s one of the first, most important things I learnt in the field. Sometimes the system is wrong. It’s always willing to sacrifice a pawn to win the board. But we’re not pawns, we’re people. We have our own minds and hearts. We have our own lives. I let myself be too defined by SHIELD. Now, you’re letting yourself be too defined by the Inhumans. You’ve been through a lot. You need to give yourself a chance to figure out who you are now. Who  _Daisy_ is.”

“Pot, kettle.”

Simmons smiles. She presses her lips together and the smile hardens, then saddens.

“I’m working on it. I’ve just got a bit of cleaning up to do first.”


	6. Coming Out. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Can I hold your hand?"  
> Fluff. Coming out/meetcute-esque, with a side of Simmorse.

Simmons smirked down at the number on the paper in her hand.

“Yep, still got it.” She looked across at Daisy. “You owe me a drink.”

Daisy snorted. “I do not, that’s invalid.”

“How so?”

“The point of getting someone’s number is to give them a chance. What are you going to do with her? Hold her hand? Shame on you, Jemma.”

“You seem to be implying that I’m not interested in anything more than that.” Simmons raised an eyebrow. After a moment, Daisy frowned.

“Aren’t – aren’t you?” Eyes wide, Daisy glanced after the blonde, who was sitting at the bar, waiting for her order. Simmons waved coyly. The blonde waved back.

“No _way!_ ” Daisy slammed a hand over her mouth. In a hushed tone, still forceful with excitement, she repeated across the table. “ _No way._ How come you’ve never told me about this?”

Simmons shrugged. “It was never relevant.”

“Truth or dare! Spin the bottle! All those goo-goo eyes I made at you for weeks! It was very relevant!”

Simmons blushed.

“You – you were making eyes at me?”

“Yeah. ‘Spose you were used to it because literally everybody makes eyes at you. But yeah. I was.”

“You never told me about this either.”

“And Hannah…was not a clue?”

Simmons shrugged. “She was Inhuman, and very attractive, and you were going through a pretty severe identity crisis. I thought it was-“

“If you say ‘just a phase’ I _will_ punch you.”

“Well sometimes it is!” Simmons defended herself. “And sometimes it’s an exception from a norm. I’m just saying. Sexuality is a fluid thing. I didn’t want to make assumptions about you when you never talked about it. I was trying to be polite.”

“No exception here,” Daisy promised. “Girls are hot. Like, ridiculously so. Have you _met_ girls?”

“You should have seen Bobbi.” Simmons blushed at the thought. “When she busted me out of Hydra. Honestly, I thought I was going to have heart palpitations for _weeks_.”

“You should try training with her.”

“Oh, I am, I start tomorrow.” Simmons groaned silently and put her forehead on the table. “I’m going to die. This is how I die. Surrounded by ridiculously attractive women I’ve never kissed.”

“You can kiss me, if you like,” Daisy offered.

Simmons looked up.

“Are you…are you being serious?”

“Yes I am. I’ll even buy you a drink first. Two if you want, since I already owe you one.” Daisy reached across the table and dramatically took Simmons hands into her own. With gravity – and desperately trying to keep a straight face - she proposed:

“Jemma Simmons. Can I hold your hand?”


	7. Canon Compat. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Just because."  
> Canon compat, set early S3. Hurt/comfort.

It’s getting late. Simmons sits at the dining room table, flicking lazily through her tablet, checking and rearranging data from the monolith simulations, recording their failures and scanning for flaws and opportunities to retry. She bites her nail, trying to focus.

Fitz is in the garage, with Mack or Hunter or both. Working out, apparently. She doubts it – but there’s a nagging thought in the back of her mind about how much tougher and more defined he’s become these days. The thought of it thrills her a little, but makes her sick to the stomach at the same time. The more she thinks about Fitz, the more she thinks about Will, and the mess she’s got them all in. If she can just find Will, save him, explain herself somehow -

A dish is dropped down onto the table beside her. It’s a small ovenproof glass dish, filled with some kind of layered bake. A fork is wedged upright in the middle. Skye – Daisy, damn it – sits beside it, peering over Simmons’ screen. Seeing Simmons’ attention shift, Daisy smiles down at her.

“Ratatouille,” she explains, and sticks a forkful from her own dish into her mouth.

“What’s it for?” Simmons asks.

Daisy shrugs and swallows. “Just because. I would have gone with lasagne or cake  - well, cake, because I can’t make lasagne - but I figured you’d want some, I dunno, ‘nutrients’ or whatever.”

She rolls her eyes, and Simmons snorts briefly with laughter. Daisy smiles and kicks her legs, until she notices Simmons has gone back to her work, and not touched the food.

“Come on, eat up,” she prods.

“Thank you Skye – ah, Daisy,” Simmons says. “I’m just in the middle of something. I’ll eat when I’m done, I promise.”

“You’ve been ‘in the middle of something’ all week,” Daisy protests. She unclips the tablet from its base and puts it out of Simmons’ reach. Simmons does not protest, her exhaustion and frustration clear in the way her shoulders slump, her hands fold together and her eyes drop.

“Do you know how many vegetables are in this?” Daisy continues, and waves a forkful of ratatouille at Simmons. “So many. I just got every vegetable I could find and baked it. I’m eating _pumpkin_ for you.”

Simmons looks up. She can see Daisy’s determination not to leave. It must be killing her to keep up the humorously exaggerated expression of disgust, but she only just lets a flicker of concern show through, waiting for Simmons herself to make the first move if she wants comfort.

Simmons reaches for the ratatouille.


	8. Canon Compat. Angst/Hurt/Comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Call me when you get home."  
> Canon compat. Set early/pre S2. Angsty side of hurt/comfort.

“This is a good thing.” Skye smiles encouragingly. “It’s a great idea. Sunshine, fresh air, a bit of a break from the doom and gloom of this place. Plus, I’m sure they really miss you.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they do.” Simmons nods, glad she is holding her bag so her hands don’t look too lost. “I’m looking forward to it, actually. It’s strange, I’ve been really missing Reginald lately. ”

“Reginald?”

“My horse.” She can’t help but blush a little as Skye’s face lights up briefly with a teasing smile.

“You have a horse and his name is Reginald,” Skye repeats. “Of course you do. This is fantastic. You can’t leave me now I haven’t thought of any good jokes – I’ll start working on some material for when you get back.”

Simmons laughs. “You know, Fitz swears the first time they met, Reggie tried to eat him? I think he was more interested in all the layers of sugar Fitz never cleans out of that bloody cardigan but either way, it was hilarious. His mother got a good laugh out of that when he asked her how to darn it up.”

A sparkle of joy in her eyes at the memory turns into glistening sorrow as both their thoughts turn to Fitz’ mother. Skye bites her lip.

“Are you going to see her?”

“No. I can’t right now, I – I don’t know what I would say, you know?”

“I don’t know either.” Skye sighs and casts a look back over her shoulder, to the lab, where Fitz is still working. Hiding out from Jemma leaving. Not wanting to say goodbye – not even for a little while. Ashamed, maybe, that he might not get the words out. “Maybe we’d better wait until he can tell her himself, I guess.”

“That’s what I figured,” Simmons agreed. “Still, I’ll send her an email. They’re…they were really close.”

She’s blinking back tears now, and Skye pretends not to see. She draws Simmons into a tight hug. Simmons is glad for the excuse to hide her face in Skye’s shoulder for a long, blissful moment of solidarity. She savours it. She’s not going to get another one of these for a long while.

In the same moment, they both become aware of Fitz’ quiet footsteps padding reluctantly into the hangar.

“Be careful,” Skye insists as she relinquishes her hold on Simmons. “Don’t watch any disaster movies and…call me when you get home.”


	9. Shield-free AU. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I hit you with my car bc you were jaywalking AU  
> AU. Fluff. Meetcute.

Doctor Jemma Simmons – PhD PhD – is having one of those days. And New York, she firmly believes, is not a good city in which to have One of Those Days. It’s too crowded to be frustrated. There’s no space to clear one’s head. Fortunately, there’s a lot of distraction, too. A lot of noise and business to keep one’s mind off Those Days, if cards are played right.

She has her own car. Well, a hire car. But she’s never really liked being chauffer-driven. This way, she gets time to herself. Others might say, Jemma gets to dork out where Dr Dr Simmons has to be prim and respectable at all times.

In fact, that’s almost exactly the wording used, a few weeks later, by a young woman with not nearly as many names as Dr Dr Jemma Simmons. In fact, she only had one name. Skye. And it was Skye who turned this One of Those Days, into a day to remember.

When one cannot find physical space, Dr Dr Simmons has always believed, one must find mental space. It just so happens that Jemma finds mental space in cheerful songs. She enjoys singing to them in the car. She’s not brilliant, but she’s not terrible. She just does it, and loves it.

But of course, sometimes while driving, it’s not the best thing to do. Especially when it leads one to forget the Number One Road Rule of All Time: drive as if everyone around you is an idiot.

Dr Dr Jemma Simmons didn’t expect anyone to be jaywalking. After all, it was illegal. And not very thoughtful. But she also didn’t expect the tiny bump of her car against said jaywalker’s leg.

“Hey! I’m walkin’ here!” The accent’s clearly put on, and the woman is already walking away, laughing and shaking her head. Dr Dr Jemma Simmons could have easily let it go.

But this was One of Those Days where fate intervenes, and she opens her door slit and says –

“Hey, what’s your name? I’m sorry I hit you. Can I take you some place?”


	10. Canon Compat. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon compat. Early 3B.  
> Daisy helps Simmons' post-Maveth recovery.  
> Hurt/comfort, fluff.

Simmons sighed, and dropped her eyes from the boxing bag hanging in front of her, to her own pale, shaking raised fists. She let her arms fall, and paced, swallowing hard. She still wasn’t quite used to the gravity, and it somehow felt like vertigo just to be standing up.

“Oh, hey,” Daisy greeted, jogging in with a smile. “Didn’t realise I was crashing your time. Can I join? Or I’ll come back.”

“No, it’s fine.” Simmons huffed, leaving the mat. “I was finishing anyway.”

“Sure?” Daisy looked her up and down. Simmons tried at everything: it was unlike her not to break a sweat. Daisy watched her to a chair, where she slumped and kicked her feet petulantly. Frowning at the boxing bag, Simmons gestured irritably for Daisy to take the mat.

“What’s wrong?” Daisy asked instead. “You want to go for a jog or something instead? I’ll come too if you like.”

“No.” Simmons pouted. “I know I’m being childish, I’m just sick of not being able to do anything for myself.”

“Hey, you could do plenty before you could hit a giant bag of sand and you’ll do plenty after. You’ll build back up to it.”

“I _know._ I just worked so hard.” With a whine in her tone, she squeezed her eyes shut and admitted. “I jogged every morning when I was at Hydra. _Every morning._ And now, because a space rock made me eat nothing but moss for six months, I’ve got nothing to show for it. Less than nothing. I probably couldn’t even read the Shield field test without throwing up, let alone actually attempt it. And look at me. I’m a twig. I’d be defeated by a light breeze.”

“Come on, give yourself some credit,” Daisy insisted. “It’d take a small dog, at least.”

Simmons rolled her eyes.

“It’s not funny!”

“I know,” Daisy recanted. “Humour is a defence mechanism, etcetera. I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. And actually, come to think of it, watching you successfully take down Mr Spalding over here probably won’t help either, so I’m just going to go.”

Daisy pursed her lips together, contemplating her next move, or whether she should make one at all. When Simmons had to balance herself on the arm of the chair before standing upright and walking, Daisy stopped preparing for the bag altogether.

“Alright. Come on. You can look after yourself and you know it. Time to start acting like it. We’re going to have a shower, do your hair, do your make-up, and find you some clothes that you actually feel comfortable in so you can stop hiding in Fitz’ sweatshirt. Jemma Simmons, it’s time to shine.”

She swiftly steered Simmons by her shoulders down the hall, not daring to look at her face in case there was fear, guilt or defensiveness there. Fortunately, when they reached Simmons’ room, the reflection in the mirror showed Simmons’ awkward smile, and Daisy silently thanked her intuition.

“Now I know your complexion’s somehow managed to lose a few shades while you were over there,” Daisy pointed out, “so I’m going to get my foundation, I think it’s closer. You have a shower – a _proper_ shower, we have _plenty_ of water – and I’ll set this place up sleepover-stylez. Styles with a z.”

Simmons rolled her eyes.

“You’ve never actually been to a sleepover, have you?”

“Not of the sleepover-club variety,” Daisy clarified. Before Simmons could roll her eyes a third time, she clapped her hands crisply and, in her best imitation of Mary Poppins, ordered: “Spit spot.”


	11. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fake Dating / Fake Out Make Out  
> That's all you need to know tbh. K+/T-.

 

It had all been going fine until now, but if Daisy was not mistaken – and she rarely was – they’d just stepped into the ring with somebody considerably higher up in the food chain than they’d initially suspected. This guy wasn’t just a purchaser of alien artefacts, he was a trader in them – Inhumans included.

Daisy drummed her fingers on the table, pretending boredom as she clenched and unclenched her toes in anxiety. She began to look around, increasingly restlessly, for Simmons, who was the (potentially severely underequipped, she was now realising) backup team, and currently under the guise of a waitress. Alas, Simmons was nowhere to be seen.

It probably felt like a much longer time than it was, Daisy told herself. She’d probably only been looking for a few seconds, or minutes at least. Simmons probably couldn’t have been to the bathroom and back in the time she’d been looking, let alone run a table or dealt with somebody’s recall. Still, she couldn’t take much more of this guy’s slimy lying charm without breaking some champagne glasses, and maybe even ending up next on his Inhuman Wanted list.

“What’s the trouble, honey?” the mark purred, reaching a hand across the table to stroke her hand, and still her drumming fingers. He grinned so smoothly, that from this angle, it looked like he must have known; like he could see through Daisy like cellophane, right to her million-dollar alien core.

“I’m hungry,” she replied, adding a whine and a pout to cover any potential strain in her voice. “We’ve been waiting forever.”

Raised eyebrows told her that the mark thought quite differently, but wasn’t prepared to say so at the risk of offending such an attractive woman. Just as he was about to shout for a waiter, to appease her, Daisy tossed her napkin and leapt to her feet in a huff.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she snapped, “and then I’m going to find somebody to take our order before I faint.”

Anger and impatience explained the way she all but fled the scene, headed for the bathroom to find the usually related inner workings of the restaurant service. To find Simmons. As she rounded the corner, a thought occurred to her that maybe some of the employees were in on it too, and maybe Simmons was in trouble, and maybe, maybe, maybe –

And all of a sudden, Simmons ran into her, and almost spilled a tall glass of lemonade.

Simmons gaped through the urge to call her Daisy.

“Excuse me ma’am? Can I help you?”

With no time or patience for ruses (what if they were being watched? what if other diners had their eyes out? what if she had Quaked something after all?) Daisy grabbed the tray with the lemonade on it, dumped in on a galley cart and hauled Simmons toward the janitor’s closet.

Eyes wide at Daisy’s obvious distress, Simmons spoke first.

“I think we should call the others. My boss –“

“- my date –“

“We’re in too deep.”

_BANG._

They jumped, as an acute silence followed the loud sound.

 _Was that - ?_ Daisy mouthed, and mimicked a firing gun with her fingers.

It happened again, and third time, and some of the tension drained out of their bodies as it became apparently that it was doors being opened and closed, and not gunfire at all.

“Wow,” Daisy muttered. “Sorry for the freakout. I think this guy was just getting to me, with all this Inhuman trading stuff.”

 _“What?”_ Simmons gasped.

“Oh yeah. He’s an Inhuman smuggler. I set up my phone to mimic his, he’s been getting notifications about it all –“

The door was all but pulled off its hinges, and Daisy was hit by the realisation that she should have seen this coming. They’d been made.

On the other hand, Simmons, it seemed, barely thought at all, and lunged at Daisy as soon as her body had registered the incoming threat. She pinned her against the shelf, thinking nothing but _lips and hips_ as if she could protect her thoughts into Daisy’s mind. As if the rather aggressive kissing and clawing at the hem of her skirt were not delivering the message well enough.

Daisy pushed her away to gasp in horror and check that her modesty was still intact, as if having just noticed their intruder. The flush in her cheeks was a welcome touch of realism as she stammered to her alleged date –

“I – I can explain.”

The mark looked her up and down with such a powerful, petulant glare that she wasn’t quite sure whether he was deciding how to kill them, or was irritated that whoever he had been after was not these two after all. Fortunately, it was at that moment that pandemonium broke out in the dining area. People screamed. Glasses broke. There was gunfire, for real this time. The mark’s men shouted for him, and with a snarl, he abandoned Simmons and Daisy to follow the call.

“What…”

Daisy looked to Simmons for an answer, to find her grinning broadly.

“People have been stealing from the janitor’s closet,” Simmons explained. “They have cameras in here.”

“Cameras the team are hooked up to,” Daisy continued, and followed that thought through to its conclusion. “Nice.”

Simmons nodded gratefully. She was still breathing a little heavily, and her pupils were dilated. Could it be the darkness of the closet, or were Daisy’s dilated too? Before Simmons got the chance to properly tell, Daisy looked away.

“Damn,” she joked, “I was kinda looking forward to breaking some of that guy’s bones.”

Flexing her wrists, Daisy stepped out into the hallway and looked around, checking for damage or people in need of assistance. Hesitant, in case she was called upon for assistance because of her uniform, Simmons crept out after her. Both were surprised to find the place was all but empty, the scare dissipating almost at rapidly as it had begun. The gunmen had been taken down, or fled, and the rest of the team who had not gone after them, were righting tables and helping civilians leave. Daisy sighed in satisfaction.

“Well, looks like the team’s got it all under control,” she concluded.

“That it does,” Simmons agreed, a little reluctantly, part of her disappointed that it was over so soon.

“Of course…” Daisy added, “this means that nobody’s watching the cameras right now, doesn’t it?”

She raised an eyebrow, and Simmons felt her jaw slacken so much and so suddenly it must have been visible. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, holding onto the thought before she killed the possibility.

“We should check in, though,” she suggested.

Daisy pouted, but she knew Simmons was right.

“Fine,” she conceded. “But hey, I’d be up for a raincheck if you would?”


	12. Coffee Shop AU. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Coffee Shop AU  
> Meet-cute/Fluff.
> 
> I am planning a slightly longer version that I'll post separately when I have more time. For now, enjoy!

The first time, it’s raining. Daisy jogs into the coffee shop on the corner, her regret at not having eaten breakfast slowly increasing as the day heads down a miserable track. She’s ruined her shoes, and her hair, dropped her purse – though fortunately, picked it up again – and she’s thirty seconds from running late and starting not to care. She’s too cold to care, and wet to the bone, and it’s sapping her energy like some sort of nightmare beast.

She surprises the girl at the counter, who looks her up and down with a frown before the smile returns. Not just a customer smile, though, it’s broader than that, and her eyes are sparkling. Daisy wonders if she’s laughing at her, and decides to lean into it, puffing at a strand of hair that is stuck to her face, as if it was simply dangling there.

“Working hard?” the counter girl checks, biting back a giggle as Daisy sweeps – or rather, drags – her disobedient hair to a tolerable position.

“Any second now,” Daisy replies. “That’s next on my list, after chatting up cute girls.”

The counter girl blushes, and Daisy blushes too, her heart racing as she hears herself.

“Sorry. I’m cold and in a rush. These things slip out, you know, I – um, Americano, please, is my point.”

She shovels coins onto the counter until the girl stops taking them, and as the girl moves away, Daisy realises that not only has she thoroughly made a fool of herself, she doesn’t even know the girl’s name.

“Order for – um –“

The coffee girl stops, and looks around for her, still blushing.

“Daisy?” Daisy suggests, reaching for the coffee.

“That’s a lovely name!” the girl blurts, her grin spreading again, and Daisy smiles at the sight. “I’m Jemma, by the way.”

They stare at each other for a second, until Jemma blushes, and laughs nervously, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I should get back to work,” she insists. Daisy almost drops her coffee as she dives into action.

“Right! Work! Of course! Bye!”

Coffee sloshes onto her hand – a surprising amount, through the tiny hole in the plastic lid – and she curses to herself as she sprints outside. It’s still raining, but she doesn’t mind so much any more. There’s a spring in her step, and a smile behind her eyelids, and she resolves to leave the house a few minutes early tomorrow.

-

There's an extended version of this fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7600081).


	13. Shield-free AU. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Neigbours AU  
> "I came home to the wrong apartment thinking it was mine AU"  
> Fluff/meet-cute.

“Damn it, stupid piece of crap machine,” Daisy hissed, slapping the steering wheel angrily as the car stuttered to a halt. It had been a long and stressful drive and she’d done it without the heater, to save whatever fuel and electricity she could manage in the hopes that her sacrifice would stretch the car’s ability enough to limp home. Though she had a jacket, underneath it, she wasn’t dressed for the weather at all. She was shivering so hard her jaw hurt. Still, she was briefly grateful that she’d made it to the street parking outside her block of apartments. The driveway was safer – and trust her luck to have this be the one time she was broken into, where she was parked where the insurance wouldn’t cover her – but she was home, and didn’t have too far to walk.

Clinging to the shreds of her optimism after her night had descended rapidly downhill, Daisy clenched her teeth and left the car. Fortunately, it didn’t feel much colder outside – in fact, it might actually have been warmer outside the vehicular fridge. Trying to ignore her legs entirely, she dug around the front seat for her handbag. It was nowhere to be found. She stuck her head down into the spaces under the seat, and checked the back, and even the boot. Nothing. She looked down at the lone car key in her hand, and remembered, she’d taken it off the chain to lend to somebody for a supply run. She’d never put it back on the chain or in her bag, and so she’d been able to leave the party without her bag, or her house keys…or even her phone, she realised as she thought on it. She groaned out loud, and kicked the tyre. It wasn’t as satisfying in strappy heels as usual. 

“Guess it’s climb time then.”

Daisy rolled her neck from one side to the other in preparation. Being a well-versed loser of keys, and a security worker, it had become a habit of hers to scope out break-in points for her apartments. She wasn’t particularly worried about them; in fact, she liked to use them to her advantage, such as on nights like tonight.

She unbuckled her heels and walked around the back of the apartments, scoped out her own, and began to climb. Her bare feet were scraped and her jacket caught a lot, but she found herself strangely grateful for the shortness of the dress; it allowed her legs a lot of flexibility, especially now that she wasn’t worried about flashing anybody. 

She dropped onto her balcony lightly, and picked the lock with a hair-pin easily. The walls were paper thin, and it was somewhere around two in the morning, so she snuck inside quietly and scoped for her bedroom. She walked into a wall, and then a table, and scrunched her nose. Perhaps she hadn’t properly mapped it out in her mind from this angle. She felt around for a light switch instead, and to her horror, knocked a collection of picture frames very loudly to the floor. Cringing, she staggered backward and found the soft leather arm of her couch. She rolled her eyes to the roof in gratitude, and dropped her heels. Perhaps she was a little more drunk than she’d thought. Perhaps it was just not her night. Either way, she’d spend the night on the couch if it meant it was over. 

Needless to say, she was surprised when the lights turned on.

Daisy sprung to her feet, and stumbled when she hit the coffee table, which was closer than she’d been expecting. She looked around for a lamp or heavy book, and it was at this point she started to realise where she was…or rather, was not. The couch was the wrong colour. The coffee table was too low, and the décor was wrong. And on the other side of the open plan – similar to hers, but with everything just slightly in all the wrong places – a young woman in oversized flannel pyjamas was standing in her kitchen, a toothbrush in her mouth, staring in shock.

“Um,” the stranger said, with a sharp inward inflection. “I’m sorry, but, ah, who are you?”

Daisy blinked, surprised by the soft, high-pitched prim English accent. 

“And, if you don’t mind…what are you doing in my house?” 

Daisy blushed. 

“I live next door,” she explained, “I- um. I broke in.” 

“I see.” 

“I don’t think I broke anything,” Daisy continued. “I definitely didn’t steal anything, I swear. I just left my keys at a party and I got home late so I broke into my apartment…only it wasn’t my apartment, obviously…anyway, you don’t really need to hear all this. You’re clearly in the middle of something. By which I mean, you know, your house. Not, um…” 

She gestured at the woman’s pyjamas, and toothbrush, which was starting to drip foam. 

“I should go,” she insisted. “I’m really sorry. I’ll leave you to it. Um. Bye.”

Trying to force her eyes away from the stranger’s surprisingly alert eyes, and somehow neatly out-of-place bun, and leave before she overstayed her welcome, Daisy strode toward the door.

“Wait!” the English woman called after her. Despite her better judgement – _I’m so getting arrested,_ a voice in her head whispered – Daisy turned. 

“You broke into my apartment?” 

“I mean, yeah.” She’d already confessed that part, anyway. 

“And I didn’t know about it?” 

“Well, if you did, you were very nice about it?” Daisy ground her teeth together. What did this lady think she’d done?

But all of a sudden, the stranger’s confusion turned to horror, and she ran to the window, and frantically checked the lock that Daisy had picked. Turning, she cast her eyes to the various alarm systems around the room. Daisy cringed. 

“Your security is terrible,” she blurted. “I mean, so’s mine, but if you’re worried…it’s because it’s terrible. And, handy tip, don’t show random strangers where your alarms are.” 

“Oh dear.” 

The stranger groaned silently. Daisy shrugged apologetically, and pointed to the systems she had given away: by the piano, the bookshelf, the kitchen. 

“I work in security,” she explained.

“Well. This is embarrassing.” 

“You’re telling me.” Daisy looked herself up and down. 

“Right!” the stranger gasped. “You left your keys? Where?”

“At a party, it’s no big deal, I’m sure somebody’s got them. I’d call around when I get back into the right apartment.”

“Preposterous! I can’t send you out to break into your own apartment! You’ll freeze – and you’ll ruin your dress! Which is lovely by the way.”

“Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome. But here, use my phone.”

Daisy caught the cell phone that sailed across the room toward her, and both of them grinned at the flawlessly – almost comedically - professional catch.

“You’re the best,” Daisy praised gratefully. “Uh…What’s your name, by the way?”

“Jemma. You?”

“Daisy.” 

“Great! Um. I have to get ready for work, so…make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the kitchen, if you like.” 

Jemma waved in the vague direction of said tea, and disappeared back into her bedroom. Daisy beamed and dropped back onto the couch, and flipped open – _flipped open,_ bless her cotton socks – Jemma’s cell phone. This was rapidly shaping up to be the best worst night of her life.


	14. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: put down the book and study her body instead  
> Fluff. Rated T.

“…twenty…” 

Daisy groaned silently, and dropped from the chin-up pole she had inserted in their bedroom door. Grinning, she rocked from foot to foot, and glanced back at Jemma, to check that her achievement had been witnessed.

Jemma peered up over her book, and let her knees slip down under the blanket to smile back at Daisy, who was beaming, and shining with sweat. 

“I dare you to do ten more,” Jemma teased. 

Daisy looked back at the pole, and then considered what she’d already done and the sweat and the tingling of her muscles.

“Nah.”

She shook her head, and dropped herself onto the bed. She lay on her back, and reached for her waterbottle. Jemma couldn’t help but let her eyes wander from her page again, and trail up Daisy’s midriff, and her tanktop – heaving with her worn-out breaths - and up her neck to her smiling face and her sparkling eyes. Daisy raked the stray hair out of her eyes, and caught Jemma’s indulgent gaze.

“What?” she asked, still lightly panting. “You want me to dare you?” 

Jemma didn’t reply. Perhaps she thought she did – her lips moved slightly – but she only blushed, and tensed her grip around the book, as if she didn’t realise she hadn’t actually hidden back behind it. Daisy laughed. 

“You’re cute,” she teased, and took another mouthful of water before rolling onto her side, and creeping her fingers up the bedsheets to Jemma’s book. Now Jemma really did try to adjust her focus – if as nothing more than a cover – but Daisy put her face by Jemma’s shoulder. And walked her fingers up her arm. And watched her with big, blown-out bedroom eyes, willing her to put down the book and study her body instead.

Eventually, Jemma could keep her composure no longer, and cast the book aside. She rolled over Daisy, into a kiss, and indulged herself in running her fingers the bare skin at Daisy’s waist. Jemma felt Daisy’s well toned and crafted muscles and the way they moved beneath her skin, and the way her skin shone and curved down to her hips, where the pants she’d been exercising in had left their little red marks. She felt her way back up, around Daisy’s spine, up to her shoulder blades, and revelled in the power that Daisy’s lithe form possessed. 

“Hey, no fair,” Daisy objected, interrupting Jemma’s exploration with a playful bite of her lip, and with squirming around somewhat inelegantly until she was under the blankets too, and could get her hands on Jemma.

Jemma’s skin was soft and smooth, and clean, and it had been delicately swathed in cotton pyjamas – pink, probably – that Daisy was shamelessly, if gently, groping her way under. There was soft hair on Jemma’s stomach, and rolls where she curled up and laughed when Daisy ran over a ticklish spot. Her breasts, unrestrained in contrast to Daisy’s, reacted all of a sudden to Daisy’s touch, and Jemma gasped a little. 

“Your hands are warm,” she explained. 

“My hands are sweaty,” Daisy countered regretfully. “I need a shower.” 

She screwed up her nose as she realised she’d just run her sweat all through Jemma’s soft, fresh, rose scent…but then, as she climbed out of bed with a sigh, she had an idea.

“Want to join me?”


	15. Canon Compat. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I believe in you."  
> Canon compat, spans Seasons 1 & 2 and moods therein.

“Will you please stop looking like that,” Skye hisses. “They’re going to think I’m holding you hostage or something.”

“Sorry.” Simmons takes a deep breath, trying to bring her skin back up a few shades. “I’m just thinking about – how much trouble I’m going to be in –“

“Breathe. Breathe, okay?” Skye glances over Simmons’ shoulder, and then fixes her eyes on the fretting agent. Reassuring is clearly not working. She aims for stern instead. 

“Fitz and Ward are going to be in a lot more trouble than you are if we don’t do something. You’re the one with the security clearance. You’re the one they’re going to trust. _You_ need to do this. Have you got your card?”

After another deep breath, and squeezing her eyes tight shut for a long moment, Simmons nods. She pulls out her card. There’s a pang of disappointment in her chest. _Goodbye, level five._ But Skye is right. She’s the only one who can do this. Five minutes of actual, real-life espionage. It’s actually a bit thrilling.

“Now, let’s go over the plan again,” Skye insists. “You’re going to go in there. Scan the wall thingy. Log in. Enter the code I told you about or drop this near it. Both, if you can. Then get out of there. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone, just get back here a-s-a-p.”

“Right.”

“You’re Hermione. You’re Nancy Drew. You got this. I believe in you.”

Simmons nods again, and scans her card.

-

It’s late. The ever-watchful Doctor Simmons lays aside her third volume today on abdominal visceral injuries and internal bleeding. She drags her eyes up Skye’s body; too pale, but at least still, she doesn’t seem to be in pain. Her face is peaceful, even if it looks more ghost than living. At least that’s some comfort, quelling the visions of blood and gore that seem suddenly nightmarish when applied to somebody real, and so close to her, and so close to death.

“Come on, Skye,” she pleads. “Tell me what to do. Help me get you out of this. Fight it. Please. I believe in you.”

Her voice hitches with tears, so she stops speaking. She swallows them down until she can breathe again. Stress and exhaustion are powerful things but she will not be beaten. Not today. Fitz is outside reading Coulson’s files until his eyes burst. He’ll find something. Tomorrow, she’ll join him. Tonight, she just has to make sure Skye sees daylight again.

She pulls her chair over from the corner, to Skye’s bedside. For a moment, she thinks about stroking Skye’s hair. That always used to feel nice, when she was ill. But she can’t bear the thought of feeling that cold, sickly sweat again.

Instead, she shuffles until it’s comfortable to lay her chest and head on Skye’s bed. She falls into a light sleep to the feel of a rough sterile blanket and sound of Skye’s steady, precious breath.

-

When Simmons watches Ward and Skye leave Providence hand-in-hand, terror strikes her, and is quelled by the thought.

When Skye stares at Simmons down the barrel of her sniper, their eyes share the same words. Forgiveness and support, always.

But it’s a long, hard, painful year before one of them finally says it again.

It’s not until after the _Iliad,_ after Skye’s watched her family crumble once again. With the fate of her people now out of anyone’s hands, and her mother’s betrayal and death playing on a loop in her mind, she’s almost unresponsive. Most of the people here have been there before – or at least somewhere near it – especially since Hydra’s revival. For the rest of the week, they leave her alone.

The medics go about their business without question. Her friends make sure she gets food, a kind word, a friendly hand every now and then. She’s grateful. She wants to be the optimist she always has been, so very badly, but her whole world is in tatters now and if she opens her mouth the only thing that will come out, she fears, is a keening scream that will bring the whole building down around them.

And then one night, Simmons comes to visit. She’s still got her lab coat on, but her voice and her carriage tell Skye that it’s Jemma, not Doctor Simmons, coming to see her now.

“Skye?” It’s soft, gentle, hesitant. Not the sharp, confident commands of her other self. “Do you mind?”

Skye shakes her head, hugs her knees and shuffles over, in case Simmons wants to sit beside her. Simmons doesn’t take up the offer. She arcs toward a nearby chair, but doesn’t take that either, hovering instead in the middle of the room.

“I…owe you an apology,” she says.

 _What for?_ Skye wonders, but she doesn’t dare open her mouth.

“I know I’ve been acting a little defensive lately…sometimes very defensive, actually. Which may have come across as aggressive. I – I didn’t mean it like that, really I didn’t. I thought it was hurting you. That it could hurt millions of people. That’s the only reason I wanted to stop it. I didn’t realise that what could become – that it could be beautiful, that it could be part of you, that it could…it could save lives.

“I didn’t understand what it was. I still don’t, to be honest. But I believe in you, and I trust you to know yourself and what you want. I believe that you wouldn’t be okay with anything bad happening because of this, so I promise, I won’t act against it unless you do.

“I just want to help you and your people be safe.”

Simmons exhales heavily; glad the words are finally out. Skye is physically biting back tears now. She nods furiously at Simmons, suddenly overcome with love and gratitude and forgiveness. The pain twists through it like a knife, reminding her of all she’s lost and all she’s come so close to losing. She reaches out for Simmons, who’s at her bedside in a moment. Simmons slips into the empty space and draws her knees up like Skye has. Skye collapses sideways onto her shoulder, and Simmons puts one arm around her, joining her in her shelter.

“Fitz was right,” Simmons assures Skye. “You’re a hero. You’re going to save the world.”

Skye, still too choked up and agonised to speak, takes Simmons’ free hand between both of hers. It’s an acceptance of the apology – and an apology back, for not hearing Simmons out, for lying to her, for scaring her. It’s a return of the comfort Simmons is offering. It’s an _I believe in you too._


	16. Canon Compat. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I believe in you."  
> Canon compat, spans Seasons 1 & 2 and moods therein.

“Will you please stop looking like that,” Skye hisses. “They’re going to think I’m holding you hostage or something.”

“Sorry.” Simmons takes a deep breath, trying to bring her skin back up a few shades. “I’m just thinking about – how much trouble I’m going to be in –“

“Breathe. Breathe, okay?” Skye glances over Simmons’ shoulder, and then fixes her eyes on the fretting agent. Reassuring is clearly not working. She aims for stern instead. 

“Fitz and Ward are going to be in a lot more trouble than you are if we don’t do something. You’re the one with the security clearance. You’re the one they’re going to trust. _You_ need to do this. Have you got your card?”

After another deep breath, and squeezing her eyes tight shut for a long moment, Simmons nods. She pulls out her card. There’s a pang of disappointment in her chest. _Goodbye, level five._ But Skye is right. She’s the only one who can do this. Five minutes of actual, real-life espionage. It’s actually a bit thrilling.

“Now, let’s go over the plan again,” Skye insists. “You’re going to go in there. Scan the wall thingy. Log in. Enter the code I told you about or drop this near it. Both, if you can. Then get out of there. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t look at anyone, just get back here a-s-a-p.”

“Right.”

“You’re Hermione. You’re Nancy Drew. You got this. I believe in you.”

Simmons nods again, and scans her card.

-

It’s late. The ever-watchful Doctor Simmons lays aside her third volume today on abdominal visceral injuries and internal bleeding. She drags her eyes up Skye’s body; too pale, but at least still, she doesn’t seem to be in pain. Her face is peaceful, even if it looks more ghost than living. At least that’s some comfort, quelling the visions of blood and gore that seem suddenly nightmarish when applied to somebody real, and so close to her, and so close to death.

“Come on, Skye,” she pleads. “Tell me what to do. Help me get you out of this. Fight it. Please. I believe in you.”

Her voice hitches with tears, so she stops speaking. She swallows them down until she can breathe again. Stress and exhaustion are powerful things but she will not be beaten. Not today. Fitz is outside reading Coulson’s files until his eyes burst. He’ll find something. Tomorrow, she’ll join him. Tonight, she just has to make sure Skye sees daylight again.

She pulls her chair over from the corner, to Skye’s bedside. For a moment, she thinks about stroking Skye’s hair. That always used to feel nice, when she was ill. But she can’t bear the thought of feeling that cold, sickly sweat again.

Instead, she shuffles until it’s comfortable to lay her chest and head on Skye’s bed. She falls into a light sleep to the feel of a rough sterile blanket and sound of Skye’s steady, precious breath.

-

When Simmons watches Ward and Skye leave Providence hand-in-hand, terror strikes her, and is quelled by the thought.

When Skye stares at Simmons down the barrel of her sniper, their eyes share the same words. Forgiveness and support, always.

But it’s a long, hard, painful year before one of them finally says it again.

It’s not until after the _Iliad,_ after Skye’s watched her family crumble once again. With the fate of her people now out of anyone’s hands, and her mother’s betrayal and death playing on a loop in her mind, she’s almost unresponsive. Most of the people here have been there before – or at least somewhere near it – especially since Hydra’s revival. For the rest of the week, they leave her alone.

The medics go about their business without question. Her friends make sure she gets food, a kind word, a friendly hand every now and then. She’s grateful. She wants to be the optimist she always has been, so very badly, but her whole world is in tatters now and if she opens her mouth the only thing that will come out, she fears, is a keening scream that will bring the whole building down around them.

And then one night, Simmons comes to visit. She’s still got her lab coat on, but her voice and her carriage tell Skye that it’s Jemma, not Doctor Simmons, coming to see her now.

“Skye?” It’s soft, gentle, hesitant. Not the sharp, confident commands of her other self. “Do you mind?”

Skye shakes her head, hugs her knees and shuffles over, in case Simmons wants to sit beside her. Simmons doesn’t take up the offer. She arcs toward a nearby chair, but doesn’t take that either, hovering instead in the middle of the room.

“I…owe you an apology,” she says.

_What for?_ Skye wonders, but she doesn’t dare open her mouth.

“I know I’ve been acting a little defensive lately…sometimes very defensive, actually. Which may have come across as aggressive. I – I didn’t mean it like that, really I didn’t. I thought it was hurting you. That it could hurt millions of people. That’s the only reason I wanted to stop it. I didn’t realise that what could become – that it could be beautiful, that it could be part of you, that it could…it could save lives.

“I didn’t understand what it was. I still don’t, to be honest. But I believe in you, and I trust you to know yourself and what you want. I believe that you wouldn’t be okay with anything bad happening because of this, so I promise, I won’t act against it unless you do.

“I just want to help you and your people be safe.”

Simmons exhales heavily; glad the words are finally out. Skye is physically biting back tears now. She nods furiously at Simmons, suddenly overcome with love and gratitude and forgiveness. The pain twists through it like a knife, reminding her of all she’s lost and all she’s come so close to losing. She reaches out for Simmons, who’s at her bedside in a moment. Simmons slips into the empty space and draws her knees up like Skye has. Skye collapses sideways onto her shoulder, and Simmons puts one arm around her, joining her in her shelter.

“Fitz was right,” Simmons assures Skye. “You’re a hero. You’re going to save the world.”

Skye, still too choked up and agonised to speak, takes Simmons’ free hand between both of hers. It’s an acceptance of the apology – and an apology back, for not hearing Simmons out, for lying to her, for scaring her. It’s a return of the comfort Simmons is offering. It’s an _I believe in you too._


	17. College AU. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Skimmons + Prom  
> College AU. Mostly fluff with Hurt/comfort/fluff, slight angst with a happy ending.  
> tw: brief mention of sexual assault
> 
> Disclaimers: a) I have probably horrifically botched the concept & timeline of Homecoming but roll with it and 2) Say Anything (1989), The Breakfast Club (1985) and Dirty Dancing (1987) in that order. You'll see what I mean.

“Thank you, thank you, I’ll see you Tuesday. And remember - vote justice, vote Jemma!”

Beaming, Jemma waved off her fellow students with their new cupcakes and stickers, bearing her name and face. This campaign was going swimmingly so far – even if most students seemed to care more about her fluffy raspberry icing than they did about her reforms to sexual assault and harassment-related regulations on campus. As the milling crowd diminished (alongside her cupcake supply), Jemma cast her eyes across the quad to Daisy, who was waiting patiently for her under a tree. Catching her eye, Daisy broke her sullen expression for a moment to flash Jemma a smile. It reassured her slightly, but still, Jemma slipped away from her table as soon as she saw an opportunity. 

“Ah, the life of a campaign wife,” Daisy lamented as Jemma approached her. She reached out as if starved for Jemma’s touch, and Jemma rolled her eyes but fell into Daisy’s embrace happily, and kissed her. Beaming, they turned so that even from Daisy’s arms, Jemma could keep one eye on her table in case anyone else came by. 

“You’re doing good things here,” Daisy praised. “Both for the campus, and for my stomach. Although, possibly not for my waistline.”

“The sacrifices we make,” Jemma joked. 

“How many cupcakes you gotta bake to win this thing, do you think?” Daisy asked, and Jemma sighed. 

“It’s about more than cupcakes, Daisy,” she pointed out. “We have racist professional dress codes I’m trying to help fight. Wifi privacy issues. A horrifically underfunded arts and social science department!” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get that,” Daisy assured her. “All good things. All the more reason to bake as many cupcakes as it takes for you to get recognised for all that other stuff. I wanna see my girl take the crown, that’s all.” 

Jemma grinned as Daisy pecked her on the nose with a kiss. 

“One, two hundred more should do it,” she evaluated. “Wanna come over tonight and help?”

“Two hundred!” Daisy gasped. “If I ever want to see you again I definitely should come over and help.”

“In that case I fully intend to pull you up on stage with me when I get that crown, Miss Daisy,” Jemma insisted. “I couldn’t have done it all without my campaign manager after all, could I?” 

Daisy’s expression fell, and her arms almost dropped from Jemma’s waist. 

“Oh, um. I wasn’t actually really gonna…go.” 

Jemma frowned. “On stage? I was joking, I don’t think they actually let you-“

Daisy pulled away at last, biting her lip. She stuffed her hands in her pocket, wishing she’d never brought it up, and kicked uncertainly at the base of the tree they were standing under. 

“No, I mean…to homecoming,” she explained. “At all. I want you to go, I want you to win! I want you to have a good time, of course, it’s just – it’s not really my thing. School spirit and all, you know? I’ve only been here, what, two months? Speaking of which, isn’t being seen with the skulky new kid ruining your sophisticated street cred? You should get back to dazzling them all, I’ll wait. I’m okay. Really.”

Jemma shook her head. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Then again, she’d been so caught up in her own excitement and preparation she hadn’t exactly made herself available to Daisy’s hesitations. She hadn’t even been aware there was a problem. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Jemma pointed out. “None of that matters! First of all, I’ve been publically dating you for almost as long as you’ve been here, so if it was going to scuttle my ‘street cred’ it would’ve done so by now. Secondly, may I point out that I’ve actually only been here this year anyway, and yet I’m a favourite to win? And thirdly – it doesn’t have to be about school spirit or any of that. For a lot of people it’s just a celebration. You made it! To the end! We’re about to graduate! Yay!” 

She clapped, trying to spread her enthusiasm to Daisy. She earnt a small smile for her trouble, but not the complete revolution she’d been hoping for. 

“Look, Jemma,” Daisy repeated. “I’ve had a miserable time of all this. I’ve repeated grades. I’ve moved schools fifty times, even moved states. I’ve missed literally every prom I’ve ever had the chance to go to and…maybe I should just take it as a sign. This is a bridge I want to burn as quickly and cleanly as possible.”

“You missed _all_ your proms?” Jemma lamented. “How do you know this isn’t a sign to you to make them all up, then?”

“They’re bad luck for me, okay?” Daisy’s tone became cold and snapping now, aggravated. “The first time, I was grounded. Second time, I was injured. Third time, my asshole boyfriend tried to – well, you know – and then…last year, I thought I had it, I really did, and then my boyfriend…a different one…he died. He _died_ , the week before senior prom. Car accident.” 

“Oh, my god, Daisy…” Jemma reached out for Daisy’s shoulder, tears on her face. Daisy shrugged her off. 

“It’s bad luck. I told you. They’re bad luck. _I’m_ bad luck. Look, I – I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. I’m gonna get changed for Cadets. I’m really sorry for bringing up Lincoln but I…yeah.” 

“Sure.” 

Jemma stepped aside as Daisy charged past her, already tearing up at an alarming rate and desperate to hide. Jemma’s heart ached with sympathy. Daisy’d had a much harder, much lonelier life than she had and all too often, she forgot that. New arrivals at her campaign table beckoned, though, and she wiped her eyes and set to work, milling over Daisy’s problem in the back of her mind as every good problem-solver did. 

-

They didn’t talk about Daisy going to prom again after that. Daisy helped bake, and they cuddled on the couch and got raspberry frosting on each other’s noses during the movies. Jemma showed off her dress, a pale golden princess-line, and Daisy made an exaggerated, swooning show of choosing a corsage for it. All the while, Jemma was pondering the question. What to do?

Daisy hated attention and being lavished on. (For all her silver-spooned upbringing, Jemma could somewhat relate). So a grand gesture was out of the question – especially one that pressured her overly much into saying yes. Grand entrances, great expense, copious amounts of roses were all on the list of what-not-to-do’s. The question of what _to_ do was much harder. She had to plan something that didn’t force Daisy to face trauma, but that also didn’t let her continue to believe that she was a curse on everyone who fell in love with her.

 _I’m bad luck,_ Jemma recalled her saying, which put a sour taste in her mouth. It was hard to choose between beautiful flowers when all of them were tainted by the taste of those words. Daisy was pretending to choose between two of them, describing them each in absurd detail like a caricature of a pretentious wine snob. She was smiling, beaming, with a sparkle in her eyes and Jemma felt herself smiling back but all the while she was thinking, _Bad luck. How could this woman believe she’s bad luck?_

“This one, I think,” Daisy decided, slipping it onto Jemma’s wrist. “Daisies. Odd choice for a corsage I know but…something for you to remember me by.”

“I love them,” Jemma praised. 

“And I love you.” Daisy bent and kissed Jemma’s wrist where there was a space between the flowers. “Now you go wipe the floor with all those other beautiful humanitarian bakers and then come over and tell me all about it.” 

But Jemma had a better idea. 

- 

Somehow, insanely, they still had homework over this allegedly sacred celebratory period. Somehow, Daisy was – as per usual – behind, on top of that. She resigned herself to catching up somewhat, since everybody she knew was busy anyway, and hummed along with her headphones as she filled out yet another paragraph of inane basic biology. 

 _Tap_

She barely noticed it the first time. It could have been a tree branch, a pencil, a stray cat, anything. 

 _Tap. Tap._

Okay, it was getting annoying now. Was there a problem with her headphones? She took them out and studied them.

 _Tap_

So not the headphones then. The window. A bird? There was all kinds of crap growing in the roof that sloped down beside her second-storey window. Some of it probably made good eating for birds, Daisy figured. 

But then a rain of tapping and rumbling, like a handful of gravel, caught her attention. Outside, somebody was shouting. Shouting for her.

“HEY. DAISY!” 

Daisy stuck her head out the window. On the sill, there was indeed a handful of gravel pebbles, from the garden bed. And when she looked to see where they had come from, Daisy felt her heart swell in her chest. Jemma was standing on her front lawn, princess dress and all, with a boom-box on a chair beside her. Grinning up at Daisy, she pressed play, and Daisy snorted with laughter at the song that came out.

 

_Don’t you-_

_Forget about me_

“What is this?!” Daisy shouted over the distance and the song. “You should be at the dance!”

Jemma shrugged and shouted back: “I put in an appearance. I decided to make a choice. 

“I know you’ve had bad experiences with prom before but…we made it, we both made it here and I don’t want to let you pass on these kinds of experiences because of negatives in your past. You don’t have to believe that everything is temporary. I don’t want to be temporary with you, Daisy. And I know you said that you didn’t want to go, before, so just say the word and I’ll turn this off and we can go get icecream or something but – if you wanted to, at all…”

She held up a second ticket, glinting in the moonlight.

“What do you say, Baby?” 

Though tears were filling her eyes, Daisy laughed. 

“I say anyone who’s prepared to horrifically botch that many classic 80s films for me is worth a shot.”


	18. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Jemma has to comfort Daisy as she freaks out because she accidentally called May mom in front of everyone in the common room."  
> Hurt/Comfort, Fluff.

“Shit,” Daisy muttered, once she was out of their sights, and still powering down the hall to her room as fast as she could. _“Shit.”_

She slammed her bedroom door shut behind her and paced, edgy. She felt like swallowing her words. She felt like vomiting them back up again. She felt like, if she were ever offered the opportunity to go back in time it would be that moment that she would change.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered to herself. Firstly, there were many other things she should change instead of one slipped sentence. Secondly, the cost of any chance to time travel would inevitably be too high. Thirdly, she had more important and urgent concerns, like the fact that if she didn’t slow her heartbeat down she was going to start breaking things.

Daisy forced herself to slow her pacing, setting a regular rhythm for herself. She stretched and flexed her wrists, expelling some of their thrumming energy, and eventually she felt her mind move toward a state of calm. Observing herself from the middle of this ocean made it less urgent, less painful. Somehow, maybe even less embarrassing – more of a state of _welp, I fucked up._

So less embarrassing, she decided, but not more reassuring. She’d still done it. She still couldn’t take it back. She’d still have to walk out there later, or tomorrow, or next year or whenever she decided to show her face, and it still would have happened.

 _“Daisy?”_ Jemma’s voice was muffled through the door. She knocked, for good measure, and Daisy let her in with a groan.

“Did you bring me a shovel?” she wondered cynically, flopping onto her bunk. She was about ready to disappear from the face of the earth. But of course Jemma wasn’t having that.

“Daisy, please, it’s not a big deal.”

 

“Not a big deal! If we were _five_ maybe!” Daisy threw up her hands. “I’m an adult! I barely even _know_ May. Relatively. I can’t believe it. Seriously, find me a shovel. Maybe I could blast my way back to China. I know some Mandarin now, I could make it.”

 

Jemma shook her head, smiling with both amusement and pity at Daisy, who was sprawled across her bed with her hands over her face, her entire body the posture of a silent groan. Jemma came to sit beside her, and put a hand on Daisy’s elbow as assuringly as possible.

 

“You know May as much if not more than any of us do. Remember? She’s been an enigma forever, or at least since Bahrain. She’s only just started coming out of her shell again around us – around _you._ Which means two things. One: you are in a very special place in her heart. And two: that woman is a brick wall. A steel vault. A nuclear blast shelter. She will never breathe a word of this to anyone if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Daisy snorted, moving her hand only to glare at Jemma. “As if that’s going to make a difference. I only called her “Mom” in front of _literally everyone we know.”_

“Piper and Calwell weren’t there.”

“Ugh, you know what I mean!”

“Daisy. Yes, you slipped up in front of the team. But we all love you and we all know how these things pressure you, and none of us will tease you if it means something real.”

Daisy sat up a little, gratitude and curiosity dissolving the hostility in her eyes little by little.

“Really? Are you sure? Not even Hunter?”

“Come on, you know Hunter knows not to touch the real stuff. And I think you reacting like this is telling everyone how close it cuts. Have a little faith and I’m sure you’ll find they won’t turn it back on you.”

“Yeah, that mentality’s served me _so_ well.”

“This time it will. I promise. I, personally, will kick the ass of the next person who brings it up. Unless May beats me to them.”

Daisy smiled, at long last. Jemma took her hand and squeezed it.

“Look,” she added, “I know you don’t want to be that vulnerable orphan anymore, that you want to be this epic lone ranger superhero, but…it’s okay to feel lonely. It’s okay to need other people, Daisy. That’s why we’re all here. Do you think I would’ve got this far without Fitz? Or Fitz without Mack? Mack without Bobbi? Bobbi without May? We’ve all helped each other out at some point, we all continue to do it. You do it to! It’s okay to rely on other people. Please, please trust yourself to do that. Trust us. Trust _me._ Please?”

Daisy stared at their intertwined hands, where Jemma had started – apparently subconsciously – to draw circles with her thumb. She sighed, finding the weight of humiliation began to clear as if she were all of a sudden breathing fresh air.

“You promise you’ll kick their asses?” she checked, meeting Jemma’s eyes with large doe-like ones of her own and an innocent, tragic pout.

“With my own two hands,” Jemma promised. She only made it a few seconds into faux-solemnity before she cracked and smiled, and then Daisy cracked too.

“So shall we go back out there?” Jemma offered, after a few seconds. “Face the music together?”

Daisy shook her head.

“No,” she resolved, and tugged on their joined hands to beckon Jemma closer. “I think we should stay right here for now.”

Daisy kissed her once, twice, and Jemma smiled a warm, sleepy smile, and lifted their joined hands to rest between their chests, between their beating hearts.

“I think I quite agree.”


	19. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'm cold, come closer."  
> Daisy's sick and the heater's broken, which means snuggles!

Simmons checked the injection site, added some extra tape to the drip tube, and tugged the blanket back over Daisy’s arm as best she could.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

“Food?” Daisy requested. “Or at least – what’s the equivalent of ice chips for when it’s minus-a-billion out?”

“It’s twenty,” Simmons corrected.

“Yeah, Kelvin.”

Simmons snorted.

“You nerd.” Daisy grinned. “Seriously, it’s freezing though. Have the guys fixed the power yet?”

“No. The second generator should be coming on soon, but that’s going to be focused on lights and communication systems. Our proverbial knickers will remain frozen for the foreseeable future, I’m afraid. I could get you another blanket?”

“No! Please. Any more and I think my bones might literally be crushed. But hey, Doctor Simmons should be happy - at least I can’t get out of bed in a hurry.”

“Doctor Simmons’ shift is over.”

“Is it now?” Daisy raised a cheeky eyebrow.

“So is there anything else?” Simmons repeated, backing toward the door with an equally blatant teasing grin on her face. “Because I was just going to go lock myself in my room with my hydro-fueled space heater, but if you have another request-“

“Come closer.”

Daisy unburied one of her hands from their blanket-cave and clawed the air for Simmons until she let the door fall closed and climbed onto the blankets, squirming out a nest as best she could.

“Sorry, did that hurt?”

“No. Between the meds and the million blankets I can hardly feel anything. Well, and the fact that every exposed part of me froze numb an hour ago.”

Simmons kissed her cheek.

“Did that help?”

“A little.”

Simmons laughed and did it again, before settling with one arm across Daisy’s chest. And then removing it, and hugging it to herself again, when the cold proved uncomfortable. Instead, Daisy wriggled her arm back out of the blankets and rested it over Simmons. Simmons gave a huff of approval and snuggled into it. She’d pulled an all-nighter to help with the storm and this was the perfect respite.

“So,” Daisy speculated, a few moments later. “That’s a no on the food, then?”


	20. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless fluff, domesticity and cuddles. G/K+.

Jemma Simmons wakes up early. Not that early, she thinks, but early enough that Daisy’s not usually awake, and that Daisy and almost everyone else they know has at some point commented on it. Even as Daisy’s routine changed, she was still a sleep-in person at heart, so Jemma was surprised to wake this morning and find the other side of the bed empty, even though they had been given the rare morning off. 

Curious more than anything else, Jemma stretched and padded into the kitchen, looking around as she went about her usual morning routine. She stuck her head into the lounge and that’s when she saw Daisy, curled up on the couch, looking positively miserable, and if Jemma was not mistaken, possibly even making the quiet growling-moaning sound of a stressed dog. 

“Morning,” Daisy groaned. “Did I wake you?” 

“No,” Jemma confirmed. “Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah.” Daisy pouted. “It’s just my stupid crappy uterus being stupid and crappy.” 

“I’m glad I don’t have one of those anymore,” Jemma said, and smiled kindly, if a little mockingly. 

“Whooptie for you,” Daisy muttered, and Jemma dropped her teasing pretence and instead crooned quietly and stroked Daisy’s creased forehead with gentle fingers.

“Did you take some ibuprofen?” Jemma asked her. 

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Aw, babe, you should have woken me up! I moved it when I cleaned the bathroom, I’m sorry! I’ll get you some. D’you want some tea?” 

“Yes please.” 

It wasn’t often that Daisy got the chance to wallow and feel sorry for herself, so neither of them minded if she was milking it a little. In fact, when Jemma returned to her side she had with her not only ibuprofen, water, and tea, but also a banana, a muesli bar, and a heated rice-pack. 

“You should get your implant replaced,” she pointed out, as Daisy tucked the warm back against her belly. “They don’t last forever, you know.” 

“You’re right, that was super high on my list of priorities last year while I was running for my life. I can’t believe I didn’t get to it.” Daisy rolled her eyes.

“I know,” Jemma said, apologetic, and Daisy sighed. 

“I know you know. I’ll make appointment later, I’m just feeling crappy. Although, it’s nice to have _little_ regrets for once.” 

“You know what’s nicer than that?” Jemma challenged, her face lighting up in a bright smile. Daisy smiled uncertainly up at her, not sure what she was getting into, but Jemma just kissed her gently, and turned around to pick up an armful of blanket from the other couch. 

“An excuse to cuddle my girlfriend,” she explained. “And to not move, all day.” 

She wriggled into place so that she was somewhat spooning Daisy, and had the blanket draped over both of them, if in a slightly haphazard way. Always the planner, she had brought the TV remotes over without Daisy even noticing, and flicked through the programs available to them with a great sense of purpose, until she found the perfect thing, and snuggled deeper into the blanket and Daisy as it began to play. 

_Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the Arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport…._


	21. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a prompt on tumblr: Simmons taking care of a feverish Daisy.  
> sappy hurt/comfort/fluffy goodness <3 loosely set in Skimmons-UA Season 4. G/K+ 
> 
> Happy Pride! Currently accepting prompts in the comments or on tumblr (@theclaravoyant)

It was a noise from the kitchen that first alerted her: drawers being pulled in and out, the rattle of spoons, the kettle boiling. Jemma scowled and marched into the kitchen, ready with a firm word and a sharp finger to send Daisy scampering back to bed, but what she found shocked the gritty determination right out of her for a second. 

Daisy was assembling a veritable tower of marshmallows, on top of a hot chocolate.

“Hey, babe,” Daisy greeted, her words a little slurred and her eyes far too wide for it to be entirely natural. “Look what I made.” 

For breakfast. At two o’clock in the afternoon. While barely awake, and sweating, and with nothing in her stomach and too much in her head. It was a recipe for disaster. Jemma’s internal alarm bells screamed, _you are not drinking that,_ even as she struggled to morph her face into something that mimicked Daisy’s. 

“Aww, sweetie,” she crooned, “it’s beautiful! Why don’t you leave it on the bench and take a bucket back to bed, and I’ll bring it in in a moment, okay?” 

Daisy pouted, but obeyed, and took the “bucket” – which was actually just a large cooking bowl – back to her room. The bed was appealing. Her body felt strange and heavy and being able to take her weight off her own feet was such a mercy, even if her head still felt clogged and her skin like it was burning. She didn’t like the look of the bucket, either, or what that meant for her health prospects over the next twenty-four hours. 

To make matters worse, when Jemma followed Daisy a few minutes later, it was not with the hot-chocolate monstrosity she had created, but rather, a cool wet flannel, and a mug full of… warm water? Daisy gagged. 

“What’s that?” she demanded.

“Lemon and honey.” 

“What about _my_ drink?” And maybe it was the fever talking, or the fact that she’d slept twice as long as usual, but Daisy felt like stamping her foot. 

“I’ll put your drink in the fridge. You can have it later. But if you’ve got what I think you’ve got, that pile of milk and sugar is just going to make you vomit marshallows for the next day and a half, and nobody needs that.”

Daisy whined in protest, but she had to agree with Jemma on that one. She shut her eyes. She was sick, and she couldn’t even have an obscene amount of sugar to make herself feel better. Rude. But at least she had Jemma, who softened at this revelation and came to sit on the bed beside her. Jemma stroked Daisy’s hair gently, humming in sympathy at the cold sweat on her brow, and the blotches of redness and paleness that discoloured her face. 

“Do you want anything else?” Jemma asked. 

“No,” Daisy replied stubbornly.

“Your laptop?” 

“No.”

“Do you want to put a movie on?”

“No.” Daisy curled up. Jemma sighed. 

“Do you want me to stay?” 

Daisy opened one eye, just a crack. Jemma was watching her patiently. She rolled onto her back to get a better angle.

“You’d stay with these stupid germs for me?”

“It’s probably the flu,” Jemma pointed out. “And _some_ of us got vaccinated.”  
  
“Yeah, well _some_ of us were busy having an existential crisis, so…” 

“Ibuprofen?”

“Mm.” 

Always prepared, Jemma dug out a box of ibuprofen she had stashed at some point in the top drawer of their bedside table. She held it out with the mug of lemon water and waited for Daisy to drag herself into position that vaguely resembled sitting.

“That should do something for the fever,” she pointed out hopefully. Daisy flashed her an uncomfortable smile, and she added: “I can get you some regular water if you want.”

“Nah, ‘s okay. I’ll try this lemon thing. Alright, here goes.” 

She took a swig of it, and though she pulled a face, did not reject it. 

“Okay. That’s not half bad,” she admitted. “You can really – you can really taste the folk remedy. Does this have any scientific rigour to it or like…”

Jemma shrugged.

“The lemon has vitamin C in it, honey is sweet and has some antibiotic properties, and of course water is always good. It can’t hurt. That’s why it’s a Simmons family tradition.” 

“Fair enough.” Daisy took another sip and then a longer, more drawn-out draught, then handed the mug back to Jemma and shuffled back down into her lying down, semi-curled position. Jemma smiled down at the mug, pensive. Daisy brushed the side of her leg with a finger. 

“Hey, don’t leave,” she murmured. “Stay with me? Being sick is way less boring and annoying when I’m with you.” 

“Okay,” Jemma agreed. “But out here in the real world, it’s cold, so I’m going to need to get under those covers.” 

They shuffled around a little so that Jemma got under the covers and Daisy had no more than a sheet over her in most places. Jemma had her knees bent up in front of her, propping up a book that she held open with one hand and read, while stroking Daisy’s hair. After a while, the ibuprofen (and miracle lemon water, probably) began to take their effect and Daisy felt the world creep a few steps back toward normal. She breathed easier into Jemma’s gentle rhythm. 

“’m glad I have you,” she mumbled. “You look after me. All the time.” 

“Well, somebody has to.” 

Jemma’s lips quirked up into a smile, but Daisy didn’t take the bait. She had, apparently, finally settled back into sleep, with a soft smile on her face that Jemma found herself mimicking. Daisy’s words had been surprisingly profound –at least, for someone so delirious with fever that she wouldn’t have been able to name the time or day - and they settled close and warm to Jemma’s heart. They spoke to the truth of a Daisy who had been looked after by so few people in her life; who had struggled through so much alone that responding to sickness with a tower of marshmallows was a luxury she had not often been able to take. It was to this Daisy that Jemma murmured her true answer: 

“It’s my pleasure.” 


	22. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skimmons go skinny dipping, and are caught/interrupted.  
> Fluff. T for nudity, innuendo, sexual references.

That was the advantage of going undercover as a semi-celebrity. She had a room that was far too big, food that was far nicer than what she ate on an average day, and clothes most of which it would actually pain her to tear or stain if she ended up facing heat in them. And of course, a beautiful personal assistant. 

“That shade of red looks good on you,” Daisy purred as Jemma came into the bedroom, finally retiring for the day. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be seducing the mark?” Jemma teased, raising a neatly defined eyebrow and quirking her rose-red lips. Daisy blushed a little. 

“We’re off-duty,” she said. 

“Only if we stay in,” Jemma pointed out. 

“What makes you think I was planning to go out?” 

Jemma narrowed her eyes. “I’m listening.” 

“I was thinking of going for a swim. How often to do we have a private pool, you know? It’s going to be a warm night.” 

“Oh.” Jemma pouted. Daisy tilted her head. 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s just. I didn’t bring my swimsuit.” 

“Oh dear,” Daisy said, deadpan, with a smile on her lips. “Whatever shall we do?”

Jemma giggled, and pulled her sheer white shirt off as she sprinted out of the bedroom, Daisy hot on her heels. They dashed through the apartment, spritely on their feet, leaving pieces of clothing here and there as they went, until they ran outside and Jemma got close enough to the pool to dive in. Her posture was smooth and streamline, sailing through the air and into the water as effortlessly as a dolphin might. Daisy very nearly stumbled over her own feet, stopping to watch until Jemma resurfaced and swept the hair out of her face. Her red lipstick was smudged. She smiled and asked: 

“You coming?” 

Now, knowing that she could never reach the fey-like grace that Jemma seemed to possess, Daisy only had one answer to this. She sprinted up to the pool’s edge, and executed a bombie, making Jemma shriek with surprise and dive back under the water to get out of the way. When they came up again, they were both laughing, feeling unusually free in the cool water on the private balcony, so far away from everyone and everything else. Just for a while, they didn’t have to worry about cramped living spaces or shared bathrooms or people _everywhere_ – strangers, friends. For a while, it was really just them. And open sky. And the cool water against their skins. 

Daisy circled around Jemma, admiring the way the water and light reflected on her skin. Jemma smiled and blushed a little, enjoying the fixated attention, and only after a few long seconds did she remember that her makeup must be smudged. She rushed to reached a hand up to fix it, but Daisy put a hand over hers. 

“Let me get it,” Daisy requested. She ran a finger over Jemma’s lips, ostensibly to wipe the smudge away, but really, to hear the little gasp that Jemma let out at the soft, gentle touch. Smiling, Daisy decided to one-up herself, and leaned in for a kiss. It was logistically a little trickier than kissing on land, and they didn’t get much practice, with the Shield pool being public and all, between the two of them they started to figure it out. Constant drifting was a bit of a spanner in the works, sending them spinning around the pool as they created their own momentum, but the water leant an interesting texture to their bodies as they slid against each other, and neither of them were about to complain. Eventually, Jemma darted away again with a laugh, and they resumed their chase from the apartment, twisting and turning for no other reason than the chase. Cursing each other, rewarding a kiss, and sailing off again. They lost track of time, of space, of everything but each other and the quiet _swoosh_ of the water. 

Until they heard – 

“Daisy.” 

She swung into the side of the pool and grabbed the edge, on alert in an instant. 

“Shit,” she whispered. 

Their visitor was none other than Melinda May, standing just outside of the patio doors with her arms crossed, feet planted, and eyes stern. She knew what she was seeing and she wasn’t intending to move any time soon. She didn’t seem about to speak another word about why she was here, either. Daisy sighed. 

“Shit,” she said again. There was nothing else for it but for her and Jemma to climb out of the pool, dripping and naked, and find out. 

May kept her eyes on Daisy, so a blushing Jemma crept past into the house, with the half stammered promise of retrieving their clothes. It was only then, that May cracked what was, for May, something of a smile. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. 

Daisy pretended to ignore the lilt of innuendo in her voice so that she didn’t blush too hard. 

“What’s up?” she asked, crossing her arms over her bare breasts and trying not to think about how naked she was, or how she felt the need to defend her ability to kick someone’s ass while in the nude. Vulnerability was a strange and pervasive thing, and she rocked on her feet, trying not to give into it. Fortunately, May was always keen to get down to business, so she explained; they’d had an unexpected success on their part of the mission, but underprepared as they were, they needed to decrypt the files and messages they’d found, and Daisy and Jemma had been the closest operatives with the clearance, case knowledge, and know-how. 

“I need one of you on files and one on emails and text messages,” May finished, and held out the thumbdrive. “We need this tonight. Can you get it done?” 

Daisy sighed. She’d really been looking forward to the night off. That was the disadvantaged, she supposed, of going undercover as a semi-celebrity: the semi-celebrity wasn’t really you, and the hip apartment and private pool only came with the condition that you drop everything when asked. She smiled, a little ruefully, at May and took the drive. 

“You know it,” she said. “But next time? Call first.”


	23. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during S1, when Skye is injured and Jemma is looking after her. Super sappy hurt/comfort/fluff.

Jemma busied herself taking notes and making arrangements by the bench at the back of the room. Skye was only a few feet away, but she’d taken Simmons’ instruction to “hush” a little too seriously, and was now taking the mickey out of it. The aid-call button above Jemma’s head flashed with the same regularity that Skye had been chanting earlier. 

_“Jemma… Jemma… Jemma… Jemma…”_

She rolled her eyes, and listened to the sixteenth repetition, returning to Skye’s side and tugging her sheets down. Skye smiled at her, cheeky in her victory and, as promised, silent. Jemma glared, but she couldn’t help but grin back a little. Skye’s humour was a welcome relief, to be honest, in a time of great stress and uncertainty. Greater than Skye knew, probably. Greater than any of them – even Jemma, at the time – could have predicted. 

“What do you want this time, hm? Pizza? A pony?” Jemma wondered. “I can’t get you those things, Skye. You’re barely off ice chips, you know that.”

Skye pouted. Jemma pouted back, apologetic.

“Babe, come on, I’m not doing this to torture you!” she insisted. “I’m the closest thing this plane has got to a medical professional, apparently, and young women who’ve just had their internal organs blasted apart don’t get pizza, that’s just common sense!” 

Skye lowered her eyes, no longer feeling so good-humoured about it. In truth, her abdominals were still feeling quite raw. She was going to have a hell of a scar, which sometimes felt really cool to say, but which other times sounded like… well, like what it was. She’d been shot twice in the stomach trying and probably failing to save a good man from an evil billionaire megalomaniac and now she was stuck in a bed on a plane owing her life to a mysterious alien substance that people had, once again, died for. 

“Oh, Skye,” Jemma sighed lovingly, and reached for her hand. “I know it’s not fair, okay? And it’s hard, and confusing. But we will figure this out. It’s going to be okay because we’re going to make it okay, and I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.” 

Skye looked up at her with big, sad eyes. Eyes that had been rejected too many times, and still hoped. Jemma’s heart clenched. 

“What I mean is,” she whispered tenderly, and brushed a finger along Skye’s cheek. “You’re still here. Everything else is secondary.”

Skye pressed her face into Jemma’s hand, and closed her eyes. Jemma could have sworn she felt tears, but she said nothing.

“Thanks for saving me,” Skye murmured. “’m glad you’re in my corner.” 

“You can count on it,” Jemma vowed. Gently, she stole a kiss, and Skye smiled and bit her lip, savouring it. 

“Gotcha,” she whispered, although alongside the mischievous twinkle, there was sincerity in her eyes that made Jemma blush.


	24. Shield-free AU. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Daisy first realises she has a crush on Jemma and Fitz is there as a supportive friend.  
> Focus on the brotp: Fitz & Daisy with strong/many references to Skimmons/Bioquake ofc. Coffee Shop AU bc it's the best AU I don't make the rules.

Fitz’s stomach was growling by the time Daisy finally made her way, in drifting and stumbling steps, back to the table where he was waiting. She had her head turned over her shoulder, not watching where she was going, and all but stumbled into the table before she realised where she was. And how long she’d been staring back at the cashier, and the little glint of her silver necklace the way her blonde hair tickled the back of her neck as she made the next coffee and – 

“Shit.” Blushing furiously, Daisy pulled her head in. Rampant thoughts scattered through her mind of flowers and kisses and a dog for some reason and a kitchen that was way nicer than hers and bare skin and – 

And then Fitz ruined by taking a loud, slurping gulp of his milkshake. 

“Took you long enough,” he cursed, but sighed with satisfaction as Daisy finally remembered to unload her cargo, and Fitz got his hands on the ham and cheese toastie he’d ordered nearly fifteen minutes ago. “Are you alright? You look warm. Should we move over to the window?” 

“No! Nah. I mean. I’m fine. Just – strong coffee, that’s all.” 

Fitz frowned. Daisy was an indiscriminate coffee drinker, just as likely to dump a handful of instant coffee in whatever mug she could find or empty a can of whipped cream into a frappe as she was to order a neat cappuccino with baby marshmallows or biscuits on the side. Strong coffee? Not likely. Nevertheless, no other explanation immediately came to mind so he let the topic go and they moved on to food and movies and video games and the afternoon whiled away.

Unfortunately for Daisy though, her confusing ordeal was not over yet. This was their regular café, and the new girl – so attractive Daisy seemed to forget how to speak around her – seemed to be there every day. Every meal. Every tiny smile as she rung up paninis and muffins and coffee and cola and Daisy really did not have the budget for this, but gradually she realised she was dragging Fitz more and more often to the same table and that maybe she was giving off the impression that this was their table and that they were a _they_ and not that it mattered but it kind of did but why did she care all of a sudden… and it was when she looked down at the coffee she hadn’t ordered – it was the girl, Jemma, she had just known – that Daisy realised what it all meant. The flushed cheeks. The domestic daydreams, and the not so domestic ones. The need for Jemma not to think that she and Fitz were together. To keep the door open. To allow for the possibility… 

“Oh… my god,” she whispered. 

“What?” Fitz looked up from the design he was doodling on her napkin, and frowned at her unusually pale cheeks. Daisy bit her lip, but there was nothing for it now. She couldn’t talk about it to anyone else. Fitz was the only one who knew her well enough. The only one she felt like trusting. The only one she didn’t feel completely foolish, confessing to about anything… even if it did seem ridiculous… or did it? Or… 

“Y’know Jemma?” Daisy began. A smile touched Fitz’s lips. 

“Oh yes. Jemma. Jemma Anne Simmons. She’s just moved here from England and she’s on a working visa and she wants to see the Grand Canyon so she’s saving up but it’s hard because rent here is so expensive. That Jemma?” 

Daisy blushed. It had been her that had parroted all this to him. Another sign, perhaps, that she was more interested than normal? “Maybe.” 

“Then yes, I’m familiar. Go on.” 

“Well… I think I might…” Daisy took a deep breath. _Here goes._ “Like her. _Like her_ like her. You know, like… _like_ her.”

Daisy’s fingers dug into the coffee cup so tensely she might have worried about tearing it, if she’d thought of such a thing. Her eyes searched Fitz’s face for a reaction. He frowned a little at first, but not in disapproval. It was more like… exploration. Reflection. As if realising that this all made sense. 

“How do you know?” he wondered. 

“I don’t know, haven’t you ever liked someone before? It’s just – it, y’know, you like them. And you want to be with them and hear their voice and learn everything there is about them because they’re pretty and nice and funny and – Jemma’s funny isn’t she? Probably. She’s probably funny.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enough coffee for you.” Fitz pried it out of her hands, and Daisy rapped her nails on the table and rocked from foot to foot. She couldn’t help a glance back over her shoulder, at Jemma, and since it was a quiet moment, Jemma smiled and waved. Daisy waved back, and squeaked, and hid again, and when she saw Fitz smirk she glared.

“Shut up, asshole,” she hissed. 

“No, it’s not that,” Fitz protested. “Although – for the record, you _are_ adorable – it’s just… I think you have more of a chance than you think.”

“More of a _what?”_

“Well, first of all, Jemma just tucked her hair behind her ears for the third time in the last two minutes… and second of all…”

Fitz slid the coffee cup back toward Daisy, and turned it around, so that her name, and a phone number faced her. Daisy gaped at it.

“That’s not – that’s not my number.” 

“No, it is not,” Fitz agreed, waiting for the implication to settle in. Daisy gaped. Blinked. 

“Should I… should I text her? No, right? She’s at work. And I don’t –“ she scoffed dismissively. “I mean, I don’t want to lead her on. I don’t even know what this is, really.” 

“Then find out.” 

Fitz nodded, but not at Daisy. Daisy frowned, and turned. Was he talking to Jemma? But her brain hardly had time to jump from one thought to next before her phone buzzed. Instinctively, she pulled it out, and read the text in the notification. 

_I get off at 2._

Daisy danced before she could think about it. Fitz smiled, and hitched his bag onto his shoulder. 

“I’ve got to get back to the grind,” he said. “Tell me where it goes. I mean, not all the way, just – let me know, okay? Good luck.” 

“Good luck!” Daisy replied. “I mean. Thanks. Will do.”

She waved, and he waved, and left, and she looked back down at her phone as the clock ticked over from 1:59 to 2:00. She felt a little thrill in her chest. Then she realised there was somebody standing behind her. She turned. 

“Hi.” Jemma blushed, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Hi.” Daisy bit her lip for a moment. “So I, uh. I would have brought you to this great coffee place I know but… who wants to go on a date at work, right?” 

“Here here.” Jemma pursed her lips. It was true, but it did require more effort be put in, and they were only at the beginning. 

“Have you had lunch?” Daisy offered. 

“Actually, no,” Jemma confessed. 

“Do you like burritos?” 

Jemma’s stomach rumbled before she could answer. She laughed, and Daisy grinned at it, before dropping her payment on the table and gesturing to the door that led the way out. 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” she agreed proudly. “Don’t worry, I know a place.”


	25. Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also posted in [ Team Playground Drabbles & Ficlets ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7295626/chapters/24486615)
> 
> Prompt: in the S3 finale, when Daisy breaks down after Lincoln's death, somebody goes to her.  
> Rshps: platonic Skimmons, with many references to Static Quake & some to FitzSimmons.
> 
> Angst, with a little bit of hurt/comfort. Rated T. Content warning: gore/gore mention.
> 
> This could have been longer, but it rounded off nicely here. I hope you like it!

The sound and the sight of Daisy collapsing was like the death of a star; distant, somehow, for all its destruction. May and Coulson looked at each other, and Fitz and Jemma looked at each other, hearts clenched with the memories of when they had each last stood at the edge of this void; the grief unspeakable; the pain unreal. Daisy howled in agony, her voice choked and shredded by tears, and her mourning swept over the others like stormy waters, threatening to drown them if they broke from their bubbles of bitter comfort, of knowing that they had not quite been  _there_ yet. 

Of course, the sound of their best friend in pain was enough to make them want to,  _need_ to reach out and save her from those same waters, and so it was that Jemma hesitantly knelt by Daisy. Afraid of her own feelings, and afraid of Daisy lashing out, Jemma nevertheless stepped as close to the edge of the void as she could manage, and reached out a hand, and rested it on Daisy’s shoulder. 

Daisy howled again, but when Jemma did not leave, put one of her own hands over Jemma’s as if holding it there would soothe the pain. She was curled up against the counter, and her other hand clenched in a fist, and it was with tearful rage that she demanded: 

“What’s going to happen to him? Tell me.” 

Jemma glanced up at Fitz, whose eyes begged her not. Death in space was a gruesome affair and not something Daisy deserved put on her conscience.

“Daisy,” Jemma said, as soothingly as possible. “I really don’t think-“ 

She should have just lied. 

 _“TELL ME!”_ Daisy demanded, and the walls shook around them.  _“TELL ME. AND DON’T LIE TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER BECAUSE I’LL KNOW.”_

Jemma felt her arm shake too, and almost snatched it away for fear of breaking it, except that Daisy calmed down again a little after that, breathing heavily and shaking herself instead. 

“Daisy, stop,” Jemma begged, trying to still her. “I’ll tell you. It’s just – it’s a nasty way to go, that’s all. I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

The soul-sucking hollowness of the eyes that looked back at her in that moment, were the eyes of someone who wanted to be hurt. Who thought she deserved the pain. Jemma felt a lance through her own chest and more tears started falling from her eyes, hot and stinging. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Daisy whispered, somehow commanding in all her grief. “If you do I’ll just look it up for myself.” 

Jemma’s eyes dropped. Hard as it was, her decision was already made. And she knew that she would appreciate the truth in such a situation. She glanced at Fitz again. Yes. She’d want the truth. She took a deep breath. 

“I don’t know exactly,” she confessed, and maybe this way she could curb the worst of it without lying. “But once exposed to the vacuum of space he would, um… well, he’d be unconscious after about fifteen seconds…” 

“But what would  _happen?”_ Daisy pressed. Jemma squeezed her shoulder, and she squeezed back, fearing at the same time as relishing the pain that was about to come her way. 

“The difference in pressure would cause the lungs to expand and tear,” Jemma explained reluctantly, “and the fluid exposed to the elements – sweat and the like - would boil. But in the end…asphyxiation, after about ninety seconds. Then it would be over.”

Daisy nodded, over and over, and the strength and the rage flushed out of her and her hand dropped from Jemma’s and she curled up more and wept, almost soundlessly. Jemma readjusted her position, coming to sit beside Daisy and pressing the sides of their bodies together. Daisy’s shoulders were not so racked with sobs anymore, just shaking occasionally as the grief bled out of her. Jemma wrapped her arms around Daisy as best she could, and it was here, prepared for the long haul, that she remembered. She remembered that she still had Lincoln’s blood on her clothes, and she remembered Lincoln’s smile and the lively debates they’d had, and she remembered the snippets she’d learned of what Lincoln had been through and what he had wanted and all the lost possibility that Daisy was mourning, on top of the love for the person she had known. It was suffocating – almost unbearable – and it made Jemma all the more determined not to let go of Daisy. She’d sit right here for days, if she had to, she promised them both.

And, though at times more figurative than literal, that's exactly what she did until it was Daisy, instead, who pulled away.


	26. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S1 AU/UA insert into the Academy ep: Skye gets curious about Simmons' old makeout spot.  
> Rated T for kissing & a little innuendo.
> 
> Written for [SkimmonsWeek2017](http://theclaravoyant.tumblr.com/post/167104339121/fyskimmons-its-time-for-skimmons-week-once) on Tumblr. Prompts welcome here or on tumblr (@theclaravoyant).

Low light, throbbing bass music, the smell of beer and chips.

It was strange how familiar it all was. How the faux-chemistry installation on the wall full of dyed water circulating like a lava lamp still brought a smile to her face. As everyone did who walked in here, Skye remarked upon it, intrigued by the water appearing to flow uphill, and Jemma laughed a little. She wondered what it would have been like if they’d met earlier. Here. Would they have kept to their separate circles, or would she still feel this flutter in her chest? The nerd with a crush on the jock. The teacher’s pet with a crush on the punk. It was as trite as anything she could think of, and yet, it made her weak at the knees.

“Buy you a drink?” Skye offered, pointing at the bar to get her point across over the crowd. Jemma swallowed her words and nodded instead, knowing she didn’t mean it  _like that_  and tried to pull her mind back from her sixteen-year-old self and onto the mission at hand. She cast her eyes over the milling crowd; at first seeking out distraction, and soon casing the place, as her field-trained spy instincts were wont to do. For the most part, the buzzing bar patrons ignored her, although the occasional whisper of a few gossip fanatics who knew who she was – or could at least take a guess - cut off in a hurry when she crossed them.

“This is so weird,” Skye muttered, shaking her head incredulously as she returned with two beers and caught two young girls with excited voices duck their heads down and furiously hush each other. “I never picked you for a popular kid. And look at Fitz over there. Lapping it up. It’s a whole new… weird, nerdy world in here.”

Jemma shrugged and turned to face her, and accept her drink.

“It’s no so different really,” she disagreed. “Fitz likes being appreciated, and he’s a very good teacher. He may be a bit of a grump but he doesn’t have enough room under his wings for this lot.”

Skye snorted, amused by the image, and raised an eyebrow. “And what about you?”

“Well,” Jemma scoffed. “I was a child prodigy with a beloved foreign accent and an above average fashion sense. I may have been a bit of a teacher’s pet, I’ll grant you, but I got attention from the rest of the class as well.”

As if to punctuate her point, she smiled at a tall well-muscled blonde who offered her a nod. Skye’s jaw slackened a little and she stumbled forward into the question.

“All – all the class?” she checked, trying not to make it to obvious.

“Well, I mean of course I wasn’t  _everyone’s_  type,” Jemma clarified. “But if you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about then – yes, absolutely. I learnt a lot about myself here, I suppose you could say.”

Enjoying the dumbfounded expression on Skye’s face, Jemma savoured her next sip. Skye shook her head.

“I have… so many questions,” she spluttered. “Did Jemma Simmons lose her virginity here? Did you pick up people in bars or did they just fall all over you? Did you have a crush on your teacher? Ooh, did you have a make-out spot?”

“Uh…” Jemma smiled, drawing it out. “Yes. Mostly the second one. Not really, they were too old for me, and, um… Yes, actually.”

A blush touched her cheeks, and Skye lit up.

“This is so juicy, oh my god. I changed my mind, I want my tour now. Before someone shoots up the place or something, knowing our luck.”

“I don’t think we should separate-“

 _“I_  don’t think we should come to the birthplace of Doctor Jemma Anne Simmons and not get the full VIP experience. Come on!”

Skye slapped a few dollars on the counter and stood, offering a hand to Jemma, with such a broad grin and such a sparkle in her eye that Jemma didn’t bother to point out that this was not technically her birthplace, nor the birthplace of her doctorates. Skye seemed to be under the impression that the Academy had been her college era, and with way that her heart seemed to be beating in her throat at this very moment, Jemma wasn’t about to object.

“Okay,” she agreed at last, and the two of them slipped out and away from Ward, Coulson and the others. Breathless with their vaguely illicit escape, they ran down the corridor a ways, and bundled each other out the door, and Jemma started semi-breathlessly spouting facts about herself.

“I had my first drink in that bar, when I was sixteen. It tasted like piss and I felt so awful about breaking the law that I didn’t touch another beer until I was twenty-three. I wore a corsage to my first sundowner because I thought it was like a dance. I’ve never seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”

“I used to sneak chocolate into church,” Skye returned, letting Jemma push and pull and lead and follow her across the courtyard and behind one of the buildings to another garden. “I’ve been drinking piss beer since I was sixteen and it’s never bothered me. I basically live Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Well, except my car was never that great, but I’m working on Coulson.”

Skye beamed deviously, and Jemma hushed her, and pulled her to the side. Her arm brushed against what appeared to be a palm frond, and she started, puzzled by what seemed to be a semi-tropical secret garden of some sort: succulents and wide-fronded plants, out of place in the otherwise deciduous early-fall environment. A stream bumbled past them. For a moment, Skye forgot it was Jemma holding her hand, until she spoke.

“Technically, this was a botched experiment,” Jemma explained. “Terragenesis. It was supposed to appear and disappear but this one got stuck. It sort of works, though, doesn’t it?”

Skye gazed around the garden; through some trees there was an ampitheatre, covered in mosses and lichens, and above that, Roman-style columns that were far too new to actually be ancient, but that seemed to fit in somehow.

“We call it Bone Garden,” Jemma continued. “Ostensibly because of those, but – well, you know. It was everyone’s… make out place. Wink.”

Skye laughed. She swung her hand, and all of a sudden it felt very significant that Jemma’s pinky had curled around hers, refusing to let go. In Bone Garden.

Then Jemma jumped back, and dropped Skye’s hand, in a rush to look over her shoulder at a sound Skye hadn’t even heard. Her confidence plummeted and she frowned deeply, forehead furrowing anxiously until Skye nudged her out of it.

“Come on, Jem, we are grown-ass adults,” she pointed out. “Teach isn’t going to catch us.”

“No, it’s not that,” Jemma corrected her, eyes searching the grass and dirt at their feet as her cheeks felt hotter and hotter. “It’s just  - I’ve made a mistake, that’s all. Bringing you here.”

Skye’s smirk faded, and she frowned a little at Jemma’s persisting stress. Had she misread something?

“Why?”

“We shouldn’t have separated from the team.”

“We have phones, they can call us if they want us.”

“I know, but all I can think about is – “

“Is what?”

And honestly, Skye didn’t mean her voice to crack like that. She didn’t mean for it to make Jemma look up; not like that, with all her secrets and torn emotions betrayed by those desire-blown pupils. Jemma worried at her lip with her teeth, and Skye’s heart seized. A vision imprinted itself behind her eyelids, of kissing those lips with impugnity; of making out with Jemma as if they were those college teens after all; of pulling hair and pressing skin and breathlessness. And all this really wasn’t helped by Jemma’s quiet confession –

“All I can think about is kissing you.”

Skye inhaled, but it was more than just the unseasonably warm air that filled her lungs. It was more than just the high of sneaking out; more than standing in this place surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand kisses gone before; more than all their little touches and strange, half-meaningful glances that had never quite seemed to meet up.

It was an opportunity, and those words were an open door, and if Jemma wasn’t going to walk through it, then Skye was.

The breath was crushed out of the air between them, fleeing Jemma’s lips in an audible sigh that sent tingles through Skye’s body. She was doing most of the work, pressing them together until every inch seemed to be touching, but when Jemma’s mind caught up at last, she moved. She climbed her fingers above Skye’s waistband and under her shirt, teasing at her hips with an electricity that must have been building up all day - all year - maybe even since before they’d met. Even when their lips parted, it crackled in the air between them.

They took a moment of spinning silence, catching up with themselves. Though she knew it was irrational, part of Jemma wondered whether the static she felt would mess up her hair. Skye simply smiled, a little more meekly this time, almost tempted to run a finger over her lips to test what had really just happened. She bit her tongue instead.

“I… Skye,” Jemma started eventually, a little distracted as she noticed some force apparently keeping her fingers glued to Skye’s hips. It was a little mortifying, but Skye didn’t seem to mind, which was even more mortifying and yet, made it all worth it. She took a deep breath.

“First of all, I’m glad you did that,” she explained. “I’m not very good at – at pushing boundaries, and while I feel I’ve gotten better of late… well, we might still have been here for a thousand years, if not exactly forever. So, thank you. But I have to be honest, I don’t know much about you, and I’m not sure…”

“…If you can trust me?” Skye suggested hesitantly, wondering if she should have seen it coming. She had lied a lot at first, after all. But Jemma shook her head.

“I’m not sure what I want.”

“Your hands seem to be pretty sure.”

Still glued to Skye’s hips. Jemma smiled down at them awkwardly, and blushed.

“Yes. Quite,” she blustered. “But…”

“What happened to  _Oh, I was a child prodigy with a fancy accent and sexy cardigans_?” Skye teased. “You _liiiiike_  me.”

“I do,” Jemma admitted, but since she was turning the colour of a nearby hibiscus, Skye decided to tone down the teasing. With a soft and genuine smile, she stepped forward and took Jemma’s hands in her own, letting their foreheads drift closer together.

“I like you too,” she promised. “Not just because of crazy college hormones; I really think you’re great. And super smart. And  _super_  attractive. And I’m willing to slow this down if – if you think we could be something.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

Jemma looked up at Skye then, and as with any good makeout spot, it felt a little like there was noone else in the world but them. She bit her lip, and smirked, and Skye narrowed her eyes.

“You’re doing that on purpose now, aren’t you?”

“Mm, yes I am.”

Her cover blown, Jemma saw no reason for delaying any longer. She stood up on her toes and put her arms around Skye’s neck and kissed her again, soft and sweet and lingering – until a sharp and sudden vibration in her pocket made her jump. Skye squeaked, nursing a bitten lip, as Jemma scrambled for her phone and tried to answer Coulson with some semblance of decorum. At last, she hung up and turned to Skye with a strained smile on her face.

“Coulson’s signed up Fitz and I for a presentation to the entire cadet class in five minutes,” she explained with a laugh. “Isn’t that wizard?”

Skye pouted in sympathy.

“Look on the bright side,” she said. “At least we didn’t wreck your hair?”


	27. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "star" + "Person A overhears Person B's Christmas wish and makes it come true"  
> At a party at the Simmons house, Daisy is feeling overwhelmed. Jemma goes to find her. Rated G/Light T

Jemma smiled a little, satisfied if confused by her victory as she stepped out onto the balcony. Daisy was looking up at the stars, uncharacteristically pensive, and Jemma’s smile turned to a frown when she saw her wipe at her cheeks – at tears? – before turning around. 

Humming in consternation, Jemma opened; “I’d say I thought I’d find you here, but I assumed you’d be inside. You disappeared. Is something wrong?” 

“No,” Daisy hurried to assure her. “No. Your family’s great. I’m just… not so used to the whole, big-family-Christmas thing. It’s usually just me, eating an advent calendar too soon and watching Die Hard in my van, you know?” 

Jemma shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “And that’s an odd choice.” 

“It’s a Christmas movie, technically,” Daisy explained. “There’s Christmas in it.” 

“There’s also Christmas in _Love Actually_ and _Home Alone._ And _Elf.”_ Jemma laughed, but suddenly it dawned on her why _Die Hard_ might have been Daisy’s holiday film of choice: a family dinner interrupted by shenanigans, violence and heroism seemed much less confronting for someone with Daisy’s history than – say – an abandoned child searching for his parents. Even if it was fantastical. 

Of course, she could have been reading too much into it, but there was a lot to read into the expression on Daisy’s face. Not for the first time, Jemma wished she were more empathetic, that she might understand what that expression meant. Instead, she’d have to work for it. She’d have to think and analyse and piece together… and wait, essentially, until Daisy was ready to tell her. 

“I’m fine,” Daisy insisted. “Really.” 

Jemma huffed at her. As if she were about to abandon Daisy up here, in this state? 

“I’ll go get us some drinks,” she said instead, for the kitchen was not far and she figured both of them deserved a little strawberry champagne. Daisy only nodded, and returned her attention to the swathe of stars visible over the horizon. Above them there were clouds – it was probably going to snow soon – but looking out there, she felt as if she could fly. As she heard Jemma retreat behind her, Daisy took a deep breath, drawing courage from those stars; the courage, more than anything, to stay. 

It must have worked, because by the time Jemma returned Daisy was still on that balcony. Midway through pushing the door open, Jemma caught a murmur - “I wish…” - and stopped to listen. Daisy was talking to herself.  
  
A sigh. She slouched a little.

“Ah, this is stupid,” she muttered. “I just wanna go home.” 

Jemma let the door click shut behind her, and Daisy jumped and whipped around, horrified and chagrined. A peace offering, Jemma offered her the champagne, and she took it meekly. 

“Saw a shooting star,” she explained, looking down into the glass as if it could offer her some wisdom. “Thought I’d better – hmm. How… long have you been listening?”

“Just a few seconds,” Jemma confessed. “I only caught that last part.” 

Daisy shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…” 

“You’re exhausted, and you want to be somewhere by yourself, where you don’t have to make up lies about our lives and worry constantly that you’re not good enough for me?”

Jemma stepped forward. Daisy blushed furiously, and felt tears all of a sudden prick at her eyes. 

“I mean… yeah, I guess,” she agreed reluctantly. 

Before she could squirm away, Jemma closed the gap between them, and clasped Daisy’s free hand in hers. Taking a deep breath she looked out with Daisy over the grounds of her family’s estate… and then she had an idea.

“Look,” she suggested. “I can’t promise you home, but I do know the barn loft makes a great hidey-hole. Just - take my duvet with you, it can get chilly.”

“Are you sure?” Daisy glanced back over her shoulder, at the party. It wasn’t so bad, really. And the finger foods? Fantastic. Surely she could stick it out a little longer. But Jemma shook her head, brushing her off. 

“It’s important to me that you came tonight,” she said. “But it’s also important that you have a good time. As good as you can anyway. So take my duvet and a laptop and I’ll make my rounds and come up after that.” 

Jemma smiled, and Daisy returned a slightly more watery mimic in gratitude. Never one to let heavy emotions sit when she could help it, though, Daisy stepped in a little closer to Jemma, and slipped her arms around her hips, teasing. 

“Why not come up now?” she wondered, pouting. Jemma went with it for a moment, melting into her touch a little but before their lips could touch, she said: 

“I’ll bring dessert up later?” 

Daisy dropped her arms. “Deal.” 

“Hey.” Jemma crooked her finger, coaxing Daisy back in for a brief kiss, and lingering for a moment until – in a breathy whisper – Daisy asked:

“The duvet’s the same thing as a comforter, right?”


	28. Shield-free AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: HS AU, someone bullies Skye for being adopted by Philinda and Jemma gets so mad she punches them.  
> Fluff with a bit of hurt/comfort element. Rated K+/PG for mild violence, language and bullying (*note: some of the bullying is racist). Anti-Ward.

When Jemma tracked Skye down on the way to her locker, it was obvious something was wrong. It’s not like Skye was usually the chirpiest person at school, but today she had her head down, books clutched tightly to her chest, shoulders hunched as she made a bee-line through the crowd. Jemma danced up to her just as she yanked her locker open. 

“Hey,” Jemma greeted. “How was History?” 

“Ugh,” Skye snorted. “The worst. Being the teacher’s daughter is the worst.” 

“They found out, huh?” Jemma grimaced, sympathetic, and Skye sighed. 

“Coulson’s actually doing a good job not making a big deal out of it,” she explained, “but rumours are rumours, I guess. I don’t know how a C student who gets detention every three days on the reg counts as a teacher’s pet but apparently I’m pulling it off. Spent most of class looking for a way out. How easy would it be to unscrew those vent thingies, do you think?” 

She nodded to one across the hall, and Jemma crooned in commiseration.

“I’m sorry your first days aren’t going so well,” she said. “You should be celebrating finding your family! If it helps, I brought you one of those cupcakes from Cherry On Top, you know, the ones that are half icing?” 

“You know me so well.” A smile touched Skye’s lips, and she swapped her books over with considerably less of an edge to her movements. Trailing Jemma down the hall to the _S_ lockers, she continued to reflect. “I mean I love Coulson, he’s a great dad, I should be proud. And what they were saying about him wasn’t even that bad. Not as bad as the May stuff, anyway.” 

Jemma raised an eyebrow as she unhooked her lock. “The May stuff?” 

Skye pressed her lips together, and cast her eyes down. Jemma frowned, concerned. 

“I guess they saw May drive me home the other day,” Skye explained. “They got me this morning, saying stuff about how the reason it must have taken me so long to get adopted was because they had to find somebody Chinese, and how since I couldn’t speak the language maybe someone should take bets on how long it would take for them to send me back.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes. “That’s a surprisingly detailed and elaborate burn.” 

“They, uh. Didn’t phrase it like that.” 

“Oh no.” 

“What?” 

Skye found the source of the change of tone a moment later, when an arm across her back threw her forward against a locker. Bouncing off it, she spun around with one fist raised, but Grant Ward – eternal thorn in her side – was already well on his way.

“Hey, Mutt,” he greeted, walking backward down the hall to continue his torment with a nod at Jemma - “Hey, Sidepiece,” – and a snide callback to the morning’s ‘conversation.’ “Say hi to your Ching Chong China Mom for me.” 

Laughing, he and his friends pulled at the skin on the side of their eyes, to narrow the shape. Skye rolled her eyes.

“Real original, assholes,” she called after them, halfheartedly, but upon turning back to Jemma to insist upon drowning her sorrows in cupcake, noticed that her girlfriend’s fist was clenched. Wolflike eyes narrowed in on the bullies, whose backs were once again turned as they jostled each other over to someone’s locker further down the hall. 

“That May stuff?” Jemma questioned, a sharp edge to her tone. Skye snorted. She felt a flush of anger herself, but she was already in enough trouble this week and now her books were all over the floor, getting trampled by the crowds who had long since become unfazed by Ward and his crowd. And now Jemma was about to get herself in trouble? Not worth it. 

“Don’t even worry about it,” Skye said. “I’ve already tried reporting them. It’s not going to work. And I don’t want to feed this Coulson thing –“ 

“Who said anything about reporting them?” Jemma interrupted. 

Before Skye could figure out what she meant by this, Jemma was already on her way, striding on the heels of the dispersing crowd until she fronted up to Ward with ferocity burning in her chest. Speechless, Skye stood by Jemma’s open locker and watched. She could almost imagine steam coming out of Jemma’s nostrils. It was exhilarating, but terrifying at the same time. 

Ward was unfazed. 

He laughed. “You really wanna go?” 

Unaccustomed as she was to these sorts of confrontations, Jemma didn’t have a witty one-liner prepared. In fact, her verbal capacity seemed to be trapped behind a buzzing wall of fury. Ward had been the torment of the school for as long as she could remember, and had gone after Skye especially since she’d arrived. It had seemed fair at first: just two unruly kids at each other’s throats. The teachers loved crooning about _broken homes_ and the like, but actual intervention was low. Fortunately, Skye usually had the kick to take things into her own hands – fill his locker with shaving cream, unscrew his bike tyres, stuff like that. The fact that the spark in her eyes was finally being quenched this week was what had driven Jemma over the edge, and in all honesty she had no idea what she actually intended to do about it until she was already doing it.

Her knuckles crunched into Ward’s face. Ward screamed – a good, proper, ridiculously high-pitched scream – and doubled over, hands to his face as he writhed in agony. 

High on her victory, and feeling vaguely out of kilter with the rest of the world, Jemma turned back to Skye with a delirious laugh. Skye wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or horrified – after all, it was not every day your girlfriend decked a guy on your behalf. She ran across the hall and scooped a defensive arm across Jemma’s shoulders. 

“Oh my god, is that blood?” she wondered. 

“I think so,” Jemma said. “Huh. I was kinda hoping that would knock him out.” 

“Dude.” Skye snickered. “I think you made him cry.”

“Hm. Should I consider that an admission of guilt, Miss – Oh, it’s Miss Coulson now, isn’t it?” 

The smile drooped from Skye’s face at the sound of the new voice. Her arm slid from around Jemma’s shoulder and they straightened, sobering immediately as they looked up to face Mr Garrett. Great. He was one of the worst possible witnesses… even if a quick glance at where Ward and his cronies had gathered told them, with ravenous faces, that Garrett had not necessarily been a witness. One of them must have gone running. 

Garrett clicked his tongue. “Tutt tutt. Miss Simmons. So disappointing to see you let yourself get wrapped up in this. I expected better. I’ll be calling your parents in this afternoon – this is a very serious offense, young lady. A suspension is more than likely, I’d say.”

Jemma gaped. Her eyes filled with tears. She tried to tell herself that there was blood on her hand which should mean she was tougher than this, but in truth her resolve and rebellion only lasted so long and the realisation that she’d just punched a fellow student in the face was starting to feel more daunting than satisfying. 

“A – A suspension?” she fretted.

Skye crossed her arms. “Fuck you, Garrett. You know Ward brought this on himself.” 

“Do I have to write you up for language, Miss Coulson?” 

“Fucking right you do.” 

“That’s two infringements,” he warned. 

“I’ll take a third for free if you agree to give Ward one too. Or take Jemma’s suspension off the table.” Skye raised an eyebrow. “Come on, sir, I know you want me. I’m your White Whale. You’d love to have me cleaning gum off desks all Friday afternoon, wouldn’t you? Mmm, yeah.” 

Garrett glared, tossing up his options. Skye was not afraid of drastic action, and she could be tricky about it too. Plus, now she’d shown her hand – she’d been deliberately avoiding causing trouble on the weeks he had the detention roster. More than the task itself, she hated to be under his control. Always had, even in class, the little monster. 

He cleared his throat. 

“You and Miss Simmons will report to 5C on Friday no later than 10 minutes after the bell. Your parents will be notified and a note will be made on your records. Miss Simmons will spend the afternoon crafting an apology letter to Mr Ward and you will indeed be scraping gum. Wonderful to see you so concerned about keeping the school clean. On your way, ladies.”

Jemma pressed her lips together. Skye gave him her most sarcastic smile, and he walked away. Ward, notably, didn’t make eye contact or leave another quip in his wake as his crew herded him away.

When they were in the clear, Jemma groaned. Skye grimaced. 

“You know what?” she said. “You win. But at least we’ve still got that cupcake.”


	29. Hurt/Comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Style" by Taylor Swift. also lowkey inspired by the San Junipero episode of Black Mirror.  
> Romantic. Potentially future fic, potentially AU, take your pick. Hurt/comfort but like, fairly optimistic about it. Rated G/T.

Jemma stood by the side of the road, on a corner by her flat. She waited there, by a dim streetlight, glancing up the street every few seconds, with her heart in her throat and her hand looped through the top of a backpack containing everything left in the world that she owned. It was a chilly night, especially in a blouse and short skirt and heels too strappy to make her feel safe, but a furnace beneath her skin, fuelled by nerves and anticipation, kept her warm. 

It was not all bad, of course, she reminded herself. A short skirt and strappy heels meant she was undercover, and being undercover this late in the game meant they might just make it after all. They might just get away. If they pulled this off, it would be over. 

_That would be nice._

Jemma smiled to herself for a moment at the thought, but quickly swallowed it when she noticed a car rolling slowly toward her in the darkness, without its headlights on for extra stealth. Instinctively, Jemma’s fingers crept into the top of her pack, inching toward her gun - but then she recognised the colour, the cut of the car, and despite her nerves, felt her stomach flip with a much more pleasurable kind of anticipation.

Daisy rubbed her studded leather gloves over the steering wheel, as if to show off what she’d wheedled from Coulson; the shiny and beautiful, ever-lustrous Lola. In keeping with their cover, this looked like a date. It was romantic, Jemma thought with pride, that Daisy’d put so much effort in. Of course, it was likely in part to distract her – to distract them both – from the weight of what they were doing, but it was appreciated. Even if it was a little Thelma-and-Louise.

“Swingin’ my way, baby?” Daisy quipped, and gave Jemma a smooth, saucy smirk – the only thing missing was the toothpick. 

“Is there any other way to go, daddy-o?” Jemma returned. She grinned, blushing a little at the cheeky choice of words, but it kept her from thinking too deeply about what they were really saying. 

_Are your ready? Is it safe?_

_Yes. I came alone. Let’s go._

Daisy shrugged – suave, confident, as if unaffected by their life-and-death decision – and leaned across the car to pop open Jemma’s door. Jemma sat, throwing in a laugh and a hair flip for good measure, even though her body felt stiff and clumsy and uncooperative. She tucked the precious backpack between her legs on the floor, making sure the Glock was within easy reach, and stared down at it, heart in her throat. She mentally retraced her steps, reflecting on her surroundings, making sure they were clear, and when the light shone off her blood-red lipstick and gold earrings it was cold, hard, fierce. A lot more fierce than she felt.

Then Daisy reached into her lap and took her hand, caressing and cradling Jemma’s clenched fist with tenderness, even as she revved the engine and began their escape from this rat’s maze of a town. Jemma felt her heart settle at Daisy's confidence. She was not much used to being on the run – not like this; not alone; not indefinite as their only means of survival – but Daisy seemed to take to it like a duck to water. No. Like a wolf. Wild and wise, it felt like she was offering Jemma, _come and I’ll show you, it’s all going to be okay._

“Look,” Daisy beckoned. Jemma’s attention snapped to the skyline, where Daisy was looking too, and she felt her breath snatched away. They had broken out onto a coastal road now, and the lights of the city sparkled off the ocean as they left it further and further behind. Out here, being alone didn’t feel so bad. After all, they were young and alive and free, and they still had each other, and for now - Jemma thought as the night engulfed them - that was all that mattered.


	30. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Skimmons have a double date as their first date, and it goes terribly, but that doesn't deter them from each other.
> 
> Rated G+. Shield Free/College AU. Fluff.  
> Romantic Skimmons. Non-hostile/non-negative mentions of Fitz and Lincoln.

“Kill me,” Jemma curses, closing her eyes and groaning silently as the disaster of a night continues on its merry way, time pushing ever forward. The cold, wet patch of water and wine slowly seeping down the side of her dress is just the icing on a terrible cake. “Just kill me now.” 

“I’m _sorry,”_ Daisy apologises, for the umpteenth time, and tries once again to sponge the wine from Jemma’s dress with sopping wet toilet paper. Should she add soap? Was there some rule against that? “I told you he was clumsy! But hey, at least you didn’t go on a rant about how much you hate institutionalized religion front of a freaking _youth counselor_ – thanks for the heads up on that one, by the way.” 

“Lincoln said he was a youth counselor, I didn’t think he meant – you know, a Youth Counselor,” Jemma retorts. “And who _starts_ a _date_ with _‘institutionalised religion’?”_

“I don’t know!” Daisy squeaks. “You and me and me and Fitz talk about this kinda stuff all the time! And – _And,_ as if you can talk, Little Miss Dead-Things-At-The-Dinner-Table.”

Jemma huffs, but thinks the better of rolling her eyes. She recalls the wine incident and exactly what had led up to it and in hindsight, wonders if she shouldn’t consider herself lucky that it was only wine Fitz had spilled down her front. He had been more than a little green around the gills, after all.

“You’re right,” she observes, and sighs heavily. “We’re terrible at this.” 

“We’re terrible full stop,” Daisy agrees, pursing her lips together. It looks like Jemma’s beautiful, formerly cream-coloured dress is a write-off and, especially since they’re both going to have to face their potential dates again soon, she can feel herself and Jemma coming to a mutual conclusion. 

“I’m afraid we should cut our losses,” Jemma proposes. “We should call it a night before we… burn the bloody restaurant down, or something.”

“Agreed. Let’s make our apologies and bounce.” 

Daisy helps Jemma back into Fitz’s jacket, which he had insisted on giving her to cover the most atrocious coverage from the stain, and they hobble rather miserably back to their table. When they get there, Fitz and Lincoln have left and the bill sits, paid and with a rather generous tip, in the middle of the table. Reading it, Daisy groans. They can’t take it back or pay half, what with the boys gone and all, and it seems they’re just as keen to forget about this god-awful date as herself and Jemma are. Still, it would have been nice to have the opportunity for some damage control.

“Oh, dear,” Jemma murmurs, and slumps back into her seat. There’s still a piece of roast pumpkin on her fork that she had been quite enjoying, but it will be cold and mushy by now. She pouts. “Well, there’s nothing for it but to go home, I suppose.” 

“I’ll call a cab." 

She does, and for most of the ride home the two of them marinate in their misery, the only conversation being half-finished thoughts, wishes and what-ifs. 

“I can’t believe-“

“If only I’d-“ 

“It could have been so _perfect_ , but-“ 

Mercifully, eventually, the cab pulls up and two exhausted, disappointed girls stumble back up to their room. After such an abysmal night, the temptation is strong to simply drop into bed and sleep it off, but they push on into the bathroom instead.

“Come on,” Daisy quips, “let’s get you out of these clothes.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” Jemma replies, smiling even though the price tag of this dress feels like it’s going to be burned into the back of her eyeballs forever. She’d been hoping to at least wear it to the careers fair in a few weeks’ time. It would make an amusing story, though, if she could figure out a way to salvage it – not an elite science, perhaps, but likely to be popular amongst anyone who’d experienced a date as bad as this one.

Shoving as much of the stained area as she can into the sink and running the water, Daisy doesn’t think its chances look good. 

“R-I-P, you sexy beast,” she murmurs solemnly. “And the next four of Jemma’s paychecks.” 

“Oh, lord, don’t remind me,” Jemma groans. “I guess in hindsight I’m glad the date went so badly that I didn’t even have to pay for it. What a nightmare. I’m never going to date again. Not that I’ll be able to afford it, anyway.”

She sits down on the edge of the bath with a sigh and begins unstrapping her strappy heels. Daisy frowns, as a thought that’s been hovering in the back of her mind slowly creeps forward to the front. 

“Makes you wonder,” she suggests, “why don’t _we_ just date? Bite the bullet, you know.” 

“Us?” Jemma repeats, looking up at her. “You and me?”

“We’re the only us here, aren’t we?” Trying not to blush too much and cave into her desire to back out, Daisy continues. “And I know we’re roommates and all, and it could get messy and whatever, but I mean, think about it. Neither of us has strung two successful dates together in a row since we moved in. Tonight somehow managed to be probably the worst out of all of them even though we picked people we both thought would be great for each other. And yet still – still I kinda had… fun? No. That’s too strong a word. It was a disaster. But it was okay, for me, because it was a disaster… with… you. I dunno, maybe that’s just what having friends is for, but… I like coming home to you. That’s all I mean. And it’s no pressure, or whatever, but I just thought - maybe I’d like going out with you too. Do you think you might be interested in, maybe, go- going out with me?” 

Daisy’s got her eyes on the floor by now, and is all but holding her breath. She hasn’t been this nervous asking for a date in years. Possibly ever. The stakes, she supposes, are higher this time. She’s already got feelings invested - more feelings than even she had been expecting. 

So when Jemma stands again, her heart skips a beat.  
  
And when Jemma puts her hands on her face and brings her body in close she’s not quite sure what’s going on – only of just how close Jemma’s lips are to her face, and how soft and kissable they look.

And when Jemma speaks, it makes her whole body tingle. 

“I’d like that,” Jemma says. “I’d like that very much.”


End file.
